I lace my food with love
and if, once it’s all laid out
and steaming pleasantly delicious
I realise : I made dinner for two.
Laid a place for a stranger who
hasn’t come into my life yet or maybe
the half of my heart that left me in debt
and aching for the past. But there’s drink
for two, too. And it’ll saturate the vacuum
more than any human could, would, has.
And after years of recycling the possibility of
‘the one’, I swear to god : I’m fucking done.
For the past month I’ve been looking for some
reason you left, but rule of thumb
seems to be : the mirage will leave just
as soon as it comes.
I know I’m not sleeping tonight
I know I’m not sleeping because of
the shit. And the six cups of coffee.
But most of all it is the shit which is keeping me
wide eyed, though not surprised. Imagine
a papier Mache soup of faeces and torn tissue
floating about the bowl and garnished with
the skins of two entire punnets of cherry tomatos.
The good ones, which cost three times as much
as those watery pricks and even better when you bake them;
except of course you didn’t get to. Direct
from the delivery van to tiny grubby hands
and swallowed almost whole, the filthy addict.
Popping little red sphere’s like she
can’t get enough. And oh I have the evidence.
I’m elbow deep in it with a binbag wrapped
around my submerged arm as it disappears
fuck knows where. Will I get it back? Who knows.
Will I become one with this bowl of piss
and used food all done and oh I’m ‘SO GLAD
I made her go vegan too’ –
all the fibre super visible down the loo.
But she’s sleeping with cheeks candyfloss rouge
and, even in her sleep, she murmers
‘mumma: I love you’ and
there’s not one single chance I’ll ever
stop breaking in two with happiness
even through a, fucking,
hurricane of poo.
I consider the summer
a personal attack on my body.
Pink swells rise to the surface like
scum at the edge of polluted seas
before caking crisp and peeling
around my shoulders and across
the bridge of my nose.
Freckles group in conspiracy circles
beneath eyes red with allergies to the air;
thick with flying specks of vehemence
and dusted heavy with a lack of moisture.
Everything condensed into the huge,
deceptive, marshmallow clouds of movie scenes and
cinematic dreams but not quite the same when
your eyes close half blind in protest and
you need to sign a peace treaty to convince them
All the times I’ve said
‘I love you’,
they’re somebody else’s problem.
I don’t need to deliberate on the authenticity
of giving myself, body and soul,
to this unknowing void of past people
without the right to claim me, whole.
I am a gift to the highest bidder,
and I deal in pet names and
and the whorl of your thumb
on the center of my tongue…
The wind slapped me when
i stepped out for a minute and my skin
was drenched in half that time and all I
could think of was the night you left,
with fifty words on a screen
at two in the morning.
My reserves empty.
I poured everything into trusting
and you drank it all, asked for more
with your heart 175 miles out the door.
Now i’m cracked and nothing pools
or builds or can possibly exist: Desert pit.
Oh i’m practically a poem, and all
the beautiful things are broken.
Stars, moons, leaving too soon.
But you know my name like you know my body
and you know how
to say sorry.
Who am I to force
life inside the middle of another being
when it tore me into pieces even though
I had the words to say so. Which was the day
that it became ok to shut a living soul in the dark
from birth, for the fleeting moment it is allowed to,
forced to live. How are we numb enough that us,
the ‘humane’ race, we are the ones doing the forcing.
Are you still a rapist if the thing you rape can’t speak
or scream or write about why it doesn’t feel good and they
didn’t want it. Don’t we know, already, that they don’t want it.
Where is the tipping point – the importance of a taste
we don’t rely on vs the burden of forcing a womb to carry
children again and again, children they never see beyond a few days
whilst we attach machines to their bodies for nourishment
we don’t rely on. We do not need, depend upon, or anything more
than want it. Why do my wants matter more than the sheer
scale of industrialised pain and what makes them less
than the cat I feed them to in my home.
In this, am I alone?
I was so wrapped up
in the pain of uncontrollably loving,
I hadn’t cast a thought to the future where
i’d be held from wrapping my heart
around anybody, no matter what my legs did
or the head hid. Oh it’s good like cinnamon
in the air and his face, buried there,
haunts me at 4am when I
thrill with misery and
wonder if you