I am a pretty man with whiskey
brown eyes; my skin, warm, tan,
the universe haloes bronze.
My voice is siren song,
my hands are calloused soft.
They preach truth, how perfect
I was, judging me oblivious to their sleuth.
How they’d change for crumbs.
When their eyes uncloud they’ll see
me as I am. Words shroud me
but thoughts always bow to action.
Ill-placed fingers and suggestions will bring
I’ll be a pretty man painted, cheeks
flushed, their blood on my hands,
the barroom finally hushed. I wonder
what would they say as witness
now? Would they pray,
words dripping from my hands, pooling
where I stand?
Author and Artist: Cyndra Galea (she/they) is in the third year of her Bachelor of Fine Art’s in Creative Writing with a minor in Professional Communications. When not found with her head in a book or three, Cyndra can be found radioactive antique hunting, fixing classic cars with her dad, drawing on her iPad, or writing and editing her manuscript. Cyndra aims to work as a structural editor when she finishes her Masters of Editing and Publishing, but also dreams of releasing novels of their own.
Editors: Bea Warren and Rory Hawkins