I’m disappointed
that you’re disappointed,
that it’s not enough to be plain
or whatever it is that clothes me,
white-washed, worn.
And the cold, it’s seeping in
through fingers bent over a keyboard
(you’re not one for conversation).
Don’t let it freeze what’s in my veins;
I’m too young to be tentative,
too young to be afraid,
but I think I might just get used to
Whilst loneliness is promiscuous
and easy to please
(she’ll take anyone)
I’m partial to your jaded self.
You colour me bitter and blue
and that’s infinitely better
than white-washed.