Lisa, Artist, Londoner
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"   Just knowing you exist changed the world for me   "
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five—a—day:

She is made of coffee cream.
Of half-sunken lilypads.
Of fishtails. Of wet feathers.
She is made of fox blood.
Of exit signs.
Of shark teeth and hunger.
Of paper cuts and lemon juice.
She is made of Coca Cola.
Concentrated sugar.
Parch in the throat.
Inconceivable thirst.
She is made of cinnamon.
Candied apple and sweet tooth.
Small hands.
An elephant’s memory.
She is made of split hair
and hand-me-downs.
Books fat with raindrops.
Library fines. Bus tickets.
Broken-winged sparrows.
She is made of go.
Of leaving, but never left.
Of long strides. Of had enough.
Of unsigned postcards.
She is made of poetry.
Of clichés. Of smudged ink
and escapism. She is made
of everything your mother
warned you about at the dinner table:
Ripped stockings,
no respect, loose morals,
asking for it.
She is made of mystery.
Coattails and cigarettes.
Whiskey shots. Cemeteries.
Made of trying too hard,
but still you love her.
Still your heart catches
in your throat when you
touch her. She is made of
tumble-dried bed sheets.
Scatter cushions.
Velvet.
She is made of dandelion spores.
Of grass blades and razor blades.
Of fear. Of bitten lips.
Of Stephen King novels.
She is made of thunderstorms.
Of roar. Of high tide and the
entire spectrum of the colour blue.
She is made of your hands.
Of small courage.
Of your violent need.
She is made of your take.
Of your please.
Of your desperate.
She is made of your hands.
Which is to say
she is made
of shaking.

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