postcards
i write about the postcards from my dad and the clothes from my mum
holidays i want to be part of, t-shirts i wear to bed, none suffice
sister, mums, family members i love
brother and sisters, sweet ones who need my love times two
i write about love and madness but i still haven't read Sylvia Plath and i call myself a poet
but i have a thing for the hopeless and dangerous, i teach myself bad italian which is poetic enough
it'll make me crumble, like postcards, the ones i actually want to keep, like the t-shirts that are mine