Mathilde Frot is a French writer and poet, living in London.
You are bad.
I can be a lot worse, boss.
Apple crumble. My mind is falling apart.
Liquid joy. It’ll pass.
You had to have him. And you did.
Don’t say ‘Boss’. It’s an ugly affectation.
I’ve cheated on all my exes. And not just once.
Codeine. Wrap yourself warm.
NO BALL GAMES
Why don’t you smile more, mon coeur?
Boys like a happy girl.
Can I play with your hair?
Or is that
out of order
This is not confessional. I REPEAT.
This is not confessional.
You can play with my hair, and touch me everywhere.
I feel numinous, darling! Just numinous.
Can you come get me,
or should I order a minicab?
Sweetie, he’s just not worth it.
-Gravel, gravel, ducks, bench, seagull
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London baby, how I love you so!
YES… YES…. YES… YES… YES..