Milly

Here's the question, why on a secret phone, behind a crushed request, you suffer whispers, in hushed magenta tones, a light yet sore trespass, the reason you’re like this, flushes within your core, to escape their hit list, a lemon colour of insistence, says you've been honed, to blow away insouciance, your voice calls afresh, no one really condones, a lonely time of sentence, you are careful of inquests, faces blue as bone, illicit sisters' cigarettes, you smoke as your own.