The colours were yellow
The day
It never really was daytime
Signs of friction that took a silver colour
My heart was blood
Gushing red upon red
Dirty red upon red
A waste of good donor blood really
Left to its own devices
On a ceramic tile
Soaked by an inexpert Mr. Price towel
If the towel was that soiled then how must my insides have looked?
Like a street side abortion
. . . I’m guessing.

The colours are still yellow
Those are the official colours
The colours we vote for

I was in love with a psycho
(I want to lie and say was)
But I would describe this love as something daddy never finished
So I learnt to love incorrectly
And pretend to be loved back incorrectly
I’m grateful for the gesture
However small
IN LOVE WITH THE PSYCHO
Ergo: Becoming the psycho.