In my pockets I carry a potion to cure all ills,
but I don’t think it treats crushes.
Against the graphic white of the snow,
amber eyes follow my diagonal steps
over the fresh dead.
Twin streams of red flash,
my flame to her blood-letting magic.
Destruction has never been so poetic.

Beast and men alike crumble to her fury,
but she bows to no one –
even I only half amuse her.
Though her boldness often gives us away,
her dislike of secrecy is second only
to the inconvenience of her beauty.
She shares the history of her body with me –
I am twisted like braids around her fingers.

My hands are clammy on the joysticks
with each new snippet of conversation,
as I plot our journey into the dark.
I came to this realm for the taste of action;
all I have found is fidgeting uncertainty
at the thought of another woman’s lips.



Rachel Bruce is a poet from Hitchin, UK. Her work has appeared in The Telegraph, Second Chance Lit, Eye Flash Poetry, Eponym Magazine and The Hysteria Collective. Reach her on Twitter @still_emo.