#Girl Talking through Small Female Skull: Dear Norman, And How Are We Today? Big Sue is Miles Away Making Money, and in the Mean Time Who Loves You?

Liar. But Close.

(aka #post in which Cara loses her words and decides to use Duffy's.)

Lock the door. In the dark journey of our night,

two childhoods stand in the corner of the bedroom

watching the way we take each other to bits

to stare at our heart. I hear a story

told in sleep in a lost accent. You know the words.

Undress. A suitcase crammed with secrets

bursts in the wardrobe at the foot of the bed.

Dress again. Undress. You have me like a drawing,

erased, coloured in, untitled, signed by your tongue.

The name of a country written in red on my palm,

unreadable. I tell myself where I live now,

but you move in close till I shake, homeless,

further than that. A coin falls from the bedside table,

spinning its heads and tails. How the hell

can I win. How can I lose. Tell me again.

Love won't give in. It makes a hired room tremble

with the pity of bells, a cigarette smoke itself

next to a full glass of wine, time ache

into space, space, wants no more talk. Now

it has me where I want me, now you, you do.

Put out the light. Years stand outside on the street

looking up to an open window, black as our mouth

which utters its tuneless song. The ghosts of ourselves,

behind us and before us, throng in a mirror, blind,

laughing and weeping. They know who we are.