When you speak, moths fly out of your mouth.
They then become tiny vultures that cling within the caves of my ears.
Pecking and penetrating into my sense of understanding you.
Who are you when you speak in a tongue that is webbed?
Webbed with lies and resentment that you stole from that deadly cupcake.
The spoils of creamy vanilla embellished with maggots,
The rancid state of moulding bread bones, all slipped into your consciousness.
I want the you that once stood by the balcony sucking on Marlborough lights,
Blowing hope puffs into the air whilst playing with the silhouette of the sun.
Your motherly fingers cradling it.