by Jade Cuttle

My skin is the sky, but I’m tearing apart at the seams; a plane leaves it’s mark, as a streaming stain of white dribbles from a cut, and then clots to make a cloud.
You lot thought you could just stitch me back up; fill in the cracks like the concrete tracks you use as plasters, to hide the scars and holes you’ve dug.
An exploding bomb becomes a birthmark-
try hiding that one.