You asked me to say what was on my mind last night,
I said I couldn’t articulate it.
I knew every barbed, searing word.
I held my tongue
just to make sure we had sex.
We make me a person I do not enjoy.
I told you I loved you
just to keep you here.
I do not
want you here.
I do not
I do not
like that I said that.
I am happy for all that my love is with.
I am happy for all that my love is without.
so he might stand.
I think of you
in your cold bed.
I know I could keep you warm.
But still you’d cause me harm.
I’m still here where you left me,
Still looking at the door.
Still covered in dry sex and sweat,
Still terrified of more.
I’m full of shame for missing you,
Still full of lust from kissing you,
Still upside down from this sin, you
should not have ever come.
The waddling blister of heart disease in a respectable blue sweater awkwardly wedges himself between seat and table. The arm rests and table groan in hopeless harmony as he spills over, under and about them.
He is less brash and entirely less repulsive than the arrogant coronary in the pink shirt. His face is ugly, hardened in expression by an uninspiring life of mediocrity and catastrophically important feuds in his small island of ignorance. Time and fat have conspired to soften the structure of his face, only succeeding in highlighting the crevices in his face. A fair sack of matter is gathered around his neck, cushioning his chin from the uneasy breathing chest and gently choking his windpipe.
They both spit out some imitation of wit in between mouthfuls of southern fried pestilence.
The only redeeming qualities of these obscene, obese arseholes is how willingly they have shortened their own horrid lives, to the benefit of us all.
I was not impressed by this man, it seems. They were football fans.
all smiling and sharking,
the dancefloor is heaving.
It’s all so fucking empty.
My head is in pieces,
but I’ll keep on moving,
pretending like you never met me.