It’s as certain as my heart beating,
the frost-petaled tulips pushing,
and the lime-green tree-top tumbles.
A lightning bolt zigzags across the mirror,
seven years bad luck and a deep cut
where I’ve been struck —
a peach-plum blackcurrent bruise blooms
on my inner arm as I plummet.
Mirrored on my cheek when I smash
to the ground; a bitemark on my back
the symbol of another story, another collision.
I’ve no idea who I hurt most when I disappeared,
Your eyes are worse than the sight of my madness.
Call me Cathy, I’ll strike you down,
heal you and destroy myself in the process —
Call me Alice, I’ll be back one day,
once I’ve put my lips to the neck of the medicine bottle
and the bruises have finally healed.