long finger-nails 
cream hands 
and a smile that drives you
to hell and beyond,
there’s a boy out there who 
calls me Madonna 
we’re back in a time where oceans 
smell of women with lassy legs
and pink tongues, 
polka dot bikinis
And orange skin, 
it’s contours and perfect lies; 
He saw me semi-covered in 
baked sham. 
A martini with no ice
and I taste his salt on mine
Its glue and home hogged mother food,
I smell bourgeois flavours,
It’s a risk but I leave a number 
and a stone heart to his surveillance. 
Tonight 
when he calls me “baby girl”
I’ll fall off my bed 
break my lamp 
and step on my shattered self, 
It’s a slow painful 
self-discovery 
process,
Mother said women are 
meant to be taken care of. 
How boy?

He wears green with blues 
but his country eyes are a mix of
charcoal and grey 
His hair smells of nature 
but my birds bleed crimson 
It’s the sky versus you,
My dear boy; 
He calls me Madonna 
of the blue sky. 
we me meet. 
And again
until 
I stop reading poems 
they warn you against,
Open graves, they bear
a resemblance you fear,

thin lips 
cold hands
unshaven intentions 
clay eyes, 
there are dying birds in my sky
Oh! But boy 
how should I; 
He calls me
Madonna of the blue sky.