She rises like the sun into clouds of grey.
Smoke and pain. Stains on sheets
and dark hair not her own tickling her face
into half life.
The monkey on the wind chimes plays the tune of last nights wine, on silver strings that hang on broken wings.
She rises to face the bitch game. A cracked frown in the frame, she knows the face but not the name.
Its a fire fight against nights of killer heels
that stab like steel the real life. Night and the lines of white that keep her upright.
Its a slap dab job on eyes and gob
hair tied up in stylish mess.
Alisha does her best
She rises to face the greed of monsters
she must feed. To be Alisha by day
For Alice’s nights in the underworld
to be that girl who is loved
not the cold bitch who lives in the world above.
© Dave Kavanagh 2016