Her name was Louise

Her jeans were tight, but tighter still,
Was her gaze
As she stood by the door to the fridge
Holding milk,
As fresh as her face
As cold as her heart
A perfect accompaniment to tea

She waited.

Her look, buckled to the mug
Which now lay fragmented upon the kitchen floor,
Jagged. Hand still on hip. Shards,
Like the noses of hounds, pointed in the air.

Her legs;
Two pillars wrapped in denim,
Stretched shadows dissect the carpet.
She stands there, startled
With her tits hanging out,
And a tattoo on her forehead reading
‘my tits are hanging out’.

Her name was Louise.



Special mention to Ally Howie for ending.