Thoughts of you lie
the wrong side
of our violent rupture.
An image muddied,
once clear.

I saw hurt,
old sorrows whipping
a spite filled tongue.
Lashing, at those a threat
to your whims and wants.

Your anxieties visible
and obscure
Their source a rage within.
A dormant pain,
and regret.

Your appeal was unlike those in upscale print.
You were a belle petite,
a latent beauty
unrefined and raw.

Skin 9 carat gold
and hair unkempt.
Coiffed to a perfect do,
undone in your reckless carry on,
its strands ligatured
in playful macramé.

You self styled
through catalogues of i-D and
Black Vogue.
The concept chic,
the product disheveled.

A prototype of on-trend influences
lost,
to defeatist couture.