Personal Problems: 11th Account

N.B. i do believe in fairies, i do, i do.

dear lover,
tell me something so innately personal
that it makes you feel like the way you first fell in love with me.
the way God pushed me over that familiar cliff into your heart.
or better,
so personal that it tears you with a meat cleaver
until you are nothing but slices of guilt and regret.

you suppose I write because I hate you,
but no.
you are just not the boy I thought you were.
take heed of when I call you “boy”.
maybe it is the Peter Pan in you that calls for a Wendy like me
in life to be your mother,
to clean your room
and wipe down your sinks
because that is my calling in life.

there is no need to dislike you
at all.
not even after everything.
my fault, your fault, our fault.
it is immaterial. like dust.
we are just two children,
you fight your dad like Captain Hook
and I too thought I should never grow up,
but Peter, I must.

for me, lover
it is the having to fall in love all over again
start from cleaner whiter pages
so clear are the raindrops
in my eyes
i must harvest new tears to shed

over other silly Peter Pans like you
and the thought of it is so exhausting
but exciting.
learning to recognise his smell,
making him cups of tea his way,
or watching him fly to the second star to the right

straight on till morning.
all boys are Peter Pan at heart.
there is a shard in their chest
that wills them never to grow up.
it’s what wills them to wear the t-shirt
with the curry stain down the front to the gym.

or wills them to leave pistachio shells all over the floor.
or wills them to leave tea bags on the surface.
the TV programmes litter you like childhood dreams of being a F1 race car driver.
and sure enough,
they hide it with the bills to pay
and their newborn son in their arms

but there is magic in their lungs still
fairy dust lining their fragile ribs
that tells them to go play with their Lost Boys down the pub. get muddy.
y’see,
no matter how much it hurts me
i know you meant well jumping into bed with somebody else

right afterwards
because you’re just looking for a Tinkerbell. or Tiger Lily.
a friend to nurse the swords splicing your bones after a broken heart
whereas I took to a cloud
and went on home
where Dad had to hold me.

sure I would fall in love in again.
i would fall in love with a man so hard and so different
that we would make the planet fall away from beneath our feet
and we would go to the university of Neverland
and make it our own
i would risk my heart a thousand times

and wash it out
wring it out to dry with the mermaids all laughing at me
for being so naive that I’ll find a sweet one
but washing out my chest
means I’m a shade closer to new
and you eventually disappear altogether, stain.

no I don’t hate you
no I don’t love you
it’s just always disappointing to stain your new clothes, or organs, in my case.
for now
I’d better be Wendy
and not rely on a Peter to love me.

here is magic
the alcohol is nothing
when you can fly alone
and visit each star like i visit my grandfather.
always sweet.
no, no man for me is ever needed to be happy.

but i might stumble across one by accident to share it with
like cake.
and if you should ever run out of Tinkerbells and jäger
i should hope you find your Wendy in the nick of time
before Neverland runs out of magic
and immaturity.

it’s your turn now.

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