Lit up
They lift sweetie-sharp glow-stars
on tips of licked fingers, glue
them, neon scabs, to the inside
of her skull – she is lit.
Colour-studded, so damned
pretty – a reverse Easter egg
for the cracking.
The grit-stars shoot all night:
there is no off-switch, no plug
to pull, no wire to cut.
Her skin chafes
tender-tasting every grain
as her eyes roll back in her head.
Holly Magill is from Worcestershire. Her poetry has appeared in various publications, including Lunar Poetry, The Stare’s Nest and The Emma Press anthology of Mildly Erotic Verse. She prefers cats and strong tea to most things.