Katrina Naomi

                                         Ours is not a relationship of equals. 

                  You’re passionate, rough, violent. So much 

                  is an act – you’re always on display – I want you 

                  all to myself. Of course, you’re unfaithful, you swim 

                  with anyone, moshing their thighs, their breasts,

                  knocking them out with your rush. 

                                         At one time, I could choose 

                  whether to be in love with you. I do my best 

                  to ignore your conquests. Instead, I think 

                  of when you’re away, how you leave me 

                  gifts – razor shells, man o war, jags of glass – 

                  fragile reminders of your own tough love.

                                         I need your chill; can’t help myself.

                  You swoosh round my brain, frolicking

                  with neurones, make my skin fit me, tighter,

                  tighter, after I’ve plunged right in. I’m going 

                  deeper. I can’t consider what you want  – 

                  pinning me, scraping my limbs along rocks.

                                         I’ve learnt to say no. 

                  Despite your allure, I won’t go to you at night. 

                  But sunrise, I’ll be waiting for you, having 

                  shifted my day around your tides; 

                  my primitivism seduced – loving

                  how you run, spuming, towards me.