ugly bones

Behind the dusty radiator, 

green splashed like blood

spray in a B-film, from that time

when you decided 

to paint our bedroom 

in the middle of the night,

I keep my poems

hidden in a puce manila file

so unremarkable, it chameleons 

into the background, pink tongue 

unfurling to swallow my words 

into the shadowy crevice. 

Mostly, I don't want you

to see them, as though,

in the starkness of the early 

hours, when our walls 

demand another change, 

they might reveal my ugly 

bones through the translucent 

skin. But sometimes, I forget 

they're there, as well. Imagine

leaving them behind when we 

move on. Who will I be when 

unsuspecting tenants pull me 

out word after word like a magician’s 

string of endless gauzy scarves?

How will they piece my naked bones

together? What colour will they 

paint the room?