I still write about you because I’m still affected.
I wish in many forms, eyelashes, prayers, stars, magpies.
I taste you in dreams, in streets, in packets of McDonalds fries, in angry stiletto-footsteps,
And there begins the sad-heart,
She’s padlocked to the driest of sands, under dark rain-clouds, but the rain never falls

But in deserts she sits.

I can look at you now and frown.
I can slam the door in your face like a cake.
I can send you away like Christmas carollers.
The Scrooge of my body, there was a time I said, “That man cannot leave me, that is my insides”.
More than just a person.

When I sit and think, and I do this all the time,
That my young happy 18 year old self feels all-too-soon frail
When crushed by the metal box of heavy thoughts that cripple my spine, and dry out my small chest.

I have become a small but deep cavity,
And I spoon feed it fertilisers and water clearer than moon light
In the hope that something might grow.
I have mere fragmented memories of the juices that used to run through these spidery veins,
Chunky straw-arteries, and electric-capillaries,
That berries of every kind exploded and that sometimes it looked like the beaches of Dunkirk at war,
That all my being swelled in scarlet,
That all of it was tugging at ropes,
That not even the air could stop me,

But dry-bone,
You sucked my hair follicles and my pores,
Slurped from my fingernails and toe nails,
And lapped from my eyeballs like some great Rottweiler.
And there begins the sad-heart,
I have no waterfalls left to give.
Alone, yes, alone, like graveyard stones and abandoned chicks,

In vast deserts she sits.


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