Another poem... Her name was Sorry. Broken White Spoken night Skin colour of yellowing street light Year gone, 50. She was a hard woman Thin as the friendships On her council estate Cold as the corner She waited on Chasing dragons and supping super tenants until late Birds scribbled 'sorry' across the concrete skies As Sorry stumble mumbled by Badly dressed But her smile, always neatly pressed She is the moment just before you lie Her heart beat Was the sound of running feet Skin tattoo blue smear In text she could hardly decipher When you have never met love It is hard to recognise fear She is the small print that none of us read But she believed In goodness and slim justice And just needed one more drink Maybe a witness And she would do this In some blocks It is hard to find the beat in the heart Thought it was a car back firing A lone boy on the roads Clap! Clap! Her laugh The sound of car alarms and police sirens Sorry dies years before they buried her. Some people just keep walking Smiling Hoping All the time Sorry carries her own coffin Made from White skin And long days in Squalid before the television screen And when the door knocked Like war drums Like windows catching birds She thought it was the thin beat of her heart she heard Opened the door And there he stood The Man of Blood She was so lonely She thought it was love Even when He pulled her teeth down Like the tower blocks on the edge of town She thought it was love Even when he gave her bouquets of bruises And chocolate boxes of excuses She thought it was love Even when he dragged her by the hair Like she was a weight he needed to get rid of She thought it was love And She was sorry That she made him hurt her Sorry that she made him curse her This is a true story Started with hope and humanity Ended with murder He broke her neck Snapped Like the pencil he refused to use at school Snapped Like a broken film reel Her life stuttered and flickered And spooled to the ground When she was found They say she did not male a sound Except Sorry. Well. We walk for days on streets of closer curtains And I am certain That you heard the same thing as me A scream like a siren A car back firing Then Silence. Sorry This is your obutuary Your epitaph A life locked behind thin white Walls Where you can hear strangers breathe Now set free RIP These sorrowful hopeful women Rest in Poetry Rest in Poetry