Trust me;
though I seem to be
the beneficiary of lipstick stamped letters
and dove feathers,
love’s plagues do not evade me.
I have been caught in the frog rain,
followed mascara streams down steaming drains
and come out rat-mauled, oozing flu.
I have let her stub cigarettes on my brain,
trained myself to answer to wrong names,
believed a flock of falsehoods to be true.
I have dabbled in desperate, dirty things,
knelt for jesters dressed as kings,
pretending to be fooled, although I knew.
I have fashioned epic ballads out of flings,
disgraced myself for want of rings,
followed traitors till my feet bled through my shoes.
Trust me;
though I seem to be
the escapee of axe wielding cheats
and thirsty leeches,
love’s violence does not evade me.
Perhaps it would, if only
I would stop chasing it.
About The Author
Becca Fang is a Belfast-born, Brighton reborn writer with a flare for magenta-drenched melancholy. In her time away from being a poet and novelist, she can be found faffing about in outfits that make old ladies say, “Oh. That’s a bit different.”
Bandit Fiction is an entirely not-for-profit organisation ran by passionate volunteers. We do our best to keep costs low, but we rely on the support of our readers and followers to be able to do what we do. The best way to support us is by purchasing one of our back issues. All issues are ‘pay what you want’, and all money goes directly towards paying operational costs.
bandit. 
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