Alchemisland

Goading someone into hitting a friend, ten from zero

So I can intercede myself, look a hard man and hero

All five foot of me, a limp wrist for whisking and whiskey and little more

A wrist so skinny that a shackle slides off, workhouse build and dangerously bored

Done screaming that mam’s a whore, exeunt preceded by slamming door

Slapped red cheek but I don’t hurt anymore, sleep on Richie’s floor

I thought I was brave and they were not; regrets I abhor

I am the bad thing or attract them like a lure

Something in my nature suggesting I am otherwise to how I am, that I am pure

The centre cannot hold but the shoulders will endure.