Aching from the continuous flow
of train, wait, train, walk, drop off,
walk. Pounding steps and sweating anxiety,
through town, up the hill, through the door.
Straight up the stairs and into bed, made
by you before I left. I pile in and bathe
in the smell of you, I pour the sheets over myself
to inhale moreish memory into lungs swollen
with starving. Masochistic self abuse.
I break into pieces in our bed, and my lungs
give up on me; they don’t want to let go.
Brave for them but
each time i hold up the bodies i love
the muscles tear and become habitually painful.
Sacrificial to the point of heartache
and i’m terrified at the repetition, waiting for luck
to fuck me again and the fear only seems to
feed it. I wish i could see it, a future where one
single body would be good, could remain the same
and not use divinity to lift me so high that
the consequential fall leaves me a pulp
in the grit.
Questions left empty, no evidence,
no promises, no help and the image painted
by your messages is one i know so well.
And i’m begging, put the rose tint back on,
I need to know. Where’s the reliable source.
Blank canvass and the unknown and
pre-set expectations. Very valid fears never before
proven wrong and always always the suggestion
that i’m insane.
“But you’re so strong,”
I’m still in pain.