En Garde.

You make my muscles contract and it hurts and
I want it all over again five more times, because It’s lucky
isn’t it? Five of anything. kisses on my fingertips,
so many they are raw, susceptible only to you
and with a direct line to the pulsing ball of whatever it is
hiding in my ribcage. Maybe I’m at that age.
It helps a little, if I watch your pupils spin
to let more light in, listen to the things you persist with.
I’m terrified to close my eyes in case I miss it,
worried that the beautiful things you say could be meant another way
whilst at the same time, I know that isn’t it.
When I was sixteen I wanted to be with the same fucked up person
for the rest of my life, idiocy incarnate, but I didn’t know better –
no-one sent me that letter. Only a ring that didn’t fit,
I kept it on my thumb, hidden from his mum.
Now in it’s place a cross etched in with needle and ink,
the scarring process helped along by infection.
It’s a reminder of what blind belief can do to you.
Mind you, the tiny pointy part at the end
makes it look like a tiny sword, from your angle.
En Garde.


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