We’re the very best at being bad
We prop our breasts up with metal ridges,
lie like dogs with our chins hanging off cliff edges
tell people how they are breathing in
everyone else’s skin.
We send postcards to our friends to say
that we bet they will fail to remember
last December when we pressed ginger dough
out of snatch-shaped cookie cutters.
They made perfect tree decorations.
The bus we passed at Exetor station
waiting in the lay-by,
with that wanker slumped on the backseat unbuttoning his fly.
