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itch

05 09 18

you bit me all those years ago
sucked the blood from my heart
permissively, engorged your own
and I scratched away fervently
not letting the scab heal.
I scratched and scratched
until a little hole was formed, junkie-like.
I know better now
you bloodsucker, poison-leaver
heart-fucker
but I cannot unscar skin and muscle.
you are my permanent injury.
I abstain from scratching
but the itch still remains
potent,
as it ever was.

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threads

there is a
wall there now
I can’t see it with
my eyes but
I can feel it with
every jangled nerve

your elbow
permeates brick
and cement
to rest on mine
it is rude
and tenacious

you don’t
look at me
the way you
used to
so I wonder if
you felt it too

surely you did
I was picking
shards of cement
out of my hair
for days
on end

the hair on
my skinny forearm
stands up
to attention
soldierly
full of electricity

I look and
the golden threads
on yours
are laying flat
with no
visible disturbance

so I suppose
I won’t spend
any more time
wondering what
you dream of
when you’re alone

honey

your peaceful dreams
they dissolve
like sugar cubes in
below-average cups of tea

and your nightmares,
they stick to you
like hard golden toffees
stick to broken teeth

by now you should know
that sweetness rots your gums
and gives you gaping cavities
that are costly to repair

you may crave the
dripping satisfaction of syrup
in your little mouth
on your little tongue

but do you really want to remember
the honey trickling down your throat
when you are scrutinizing
the size of your hips again?

my darling, no
replace the lid of the biscuit tin
and be grateful that nobody
wants to see beneath your summer dress

mud

grief makes
your heart
sick
not sick
enough to stop beating and
kill you,
just sick
enough to suffer

grief makes
the veins collapse
makes them sticky,
so they
punish you
lest you forget
what you have
loved most
and lost

lest you forget,
as if you could
when you feel your
blood choking you
again
and you wonder
why you
are sentenced to die
so slowly.

knife

alone now.
sea air is a knife,
but a clean blade brings purity to skin

icons are dead.
nostalgia is a knife,
burnt and stuck in heart of existence, before

dream is wrecked.
this city is a knife,
sweet and sharp caresses down trembling sides of lovers

together once.
love was a knife,
carved perfect patterns into the history books we read to others

still alive.
I could be a knife,
on the right hand, aiding divisions, set neatly, for need or want or standby