"Two lipsticks, £12.50 and a silver ring.
Those were the casualties from our night together.
It’s easy to say that they don’t matter or that I’m not that kind of girl And that my back wasn’t bruised from the rocky ground where we fell But just because it’s easy that doesn’t make it true.
I never loose anything.
I’m usually very careful about my possessions.
You kept saying that we should be using a condom
But it didn’t matter. I always say it doesn’t matter.
It’d be easy to read some psychoanalytical statement into my mental health based on the fact that I don’t a shit about using a condom but fuck wank bollocks I lost my favourite bright red lipstick.
I think the fact that I was carrying two lipsticks around with me in my bra just waiting to be lost says more than the fact that we fucked outside. In the brush. In the bush. Lips red raw from the friction not from the gloss.
I painted myself in war colours before we met.
Striking matches and raising flags over my face to hail you.
It’s a game. It’s one more drink. It’s “I don’t remember meeting you but I’m glad I did” and 5.40 am one last sour kiss goodbye.
It’s port-a-loos and pennies falling from pockets, falling from bras.
One night stands in hedges that last longer than the darkness should be illegal.
Maybe I’ll start a special party police department and at dawn we’ll stroll around with long strongly words monologues to break the couples of the night before.
The kiss on the hand and curtsey from Austen’s novels became the handshake. Then the handshake the kiss on the cheek. Before long we were hugging as we were introduced and now we’ll fuck in fields and port a loos and strangers tents Breathily asking “yes sorry what was your name again”. And “excuse me I didn’t quite catch what you do with your life.” before brushing each other down and leaving, unaware of just how muddy our knees are.
Two lipsticks, £12.50 and a silver ring. I can imagine them being rushed to hospital on tiny canvas stretchers, with men in high-vis jackets shouting into radios, “we’re loosing the first lipstick, the pink one, his heartbeat’s fading, pulse is dropping.”
Those were the real causalities of our night together But I’m afraid to look in the mirror incase the bruises on my back have started spelling out your name."