MondayII June

It’s possible to say it’s pretty.
A white, crescent-shaped scar on pale, freckled skin.
A scar bigger than the skin you’re living in.
Like a sickly child, drained and pipe thin.

Facial scrawl the lasting badge of a bar-room brawl.
Maybe you deserved it – too much lip from a girl-like slip.

Waste-ground flesh.
Born a blank.
Your mum did that, your father stank.

Outward sign of internal decline.
One hand cradles a can, the other clutches at a straw.