You used to make me mad with love, drunk on lust. And now you're sliding into my DMs, like nothing ever happened. This is a poem about realising you don't give a shit about the person who previously had a hold on you.
Why don't you loosen the reins?
A gentle tug to prompt purpley, sunburnt, sooty shackles to the ground.
Why don't you lower the bar?
Before it slices your head clean off.
The sun throws me off scent. It's a major distraction that colours my skin red and my head cloudy, prompts paracetamol ingestion, stopes me from working. I can't write when the sun's out.