c2c

Pale highlights are waning,
fading in the morning sun.
Your GHD-straightened hair
flyaway and limp
stares at mine through the train window.
My waves are pressed up
cold against the glass
still wet from the half-hearted blow dry
half-asleep.
Your Rimmel foundation
is not best matched to a skin tone
such as yours,
and your downcast eyes seem to know it too.
I see you coming towards me,
sliding your way down the carriage,
looking me up and down;
Don’t look at my shoes that way,
my £4
Ebay
vintage doctor martens that way.
Just because I’m not in strappy
fuck-me heels,
don’t look at me in that way.
I see you looking at my tattoo
with a fucking Boots-own lipstick smirk,
just because it’s not
Winnie the Pooh
doesn’t make it not alright.
How can someone be this full of judgement
so early in the morning?
I could be smirking at your copy of
Inside Soap
wedged into your New Look carrier,
but I don’t,
I’ve got better things to look at,
like the way the cold light is bouncing off the cold water
in sci-fi rays,
or the boat called THE LONE RANGER
bobbing away from the anchored others.
I’m looking at the graffiti that says
EAT THE RICH
and the jumper caught
on the railway sidings
one arm waving in the rain.
I’m looking at the woman at Barking
dressed all in pink
looking happy as Larry,
whoever Larry was.
I’m looking at my own face
in the reflection
in the window,
and I see yours looking too.