I’m not coming over tonight
to beg you to stay,

in my heart
I know it’s over,

nothing ever lasts forever,
not even promises of

we’re in this together

Beauty is a concept
we have rarely
observed

but tonight
in your arms
I feel more
beautiful

than the supernova
that lights up
the universe

There is no honour left in love,

a simple twist of the heart
that hurts like a *****

a kick in the teeth
whose lips were just kissed

the digging of nails into a back
that has turned and walked out the door

there is no honour left in love

only cold goodbyes and empty promises
words that have no meaning
actions that have no place
moments that are out of time

if it was a game, why did I lose
without knowing the rules?

I hear voices -
that is to say a voice
that is not by own,
but a strangers

(no longer a stranger, now,
a friend, an enemy, a curse)

he licks my brain
with his wet tongue
whispering morbid
fantasies of death
and destruction

he is a wolf
to which I am
his meat - he plays
with me - toys with
me

drags me across
the floor, my blood
trailing behind,

I wake up to his
howls, peaking through
my window at the moon,

(I know moonlight well, these days)

I don't sleep that much,
his voice eating away
at my flesh, my bones
left brittles and shaking
in their shell,

I do as he commands,
eat the red fruit, don't step
on the cracks. Don't trust them!
THEY ARE SPIES!!!

he takes me whole into
his mouth, twisting me
around his tongue like
half forgotten words,

savouring his demands
for blood, that I have obliged
with the flick of a knife,

then, at last, devours me

Eighteen ways to say I love you
that shatter like ice in my throat:

the bread I used to bake with
my grandmother, her ancient hands
kneading violently as if years of pent
up frustration could be baked and sliced
in one loaf.

I did not know how to say “I love you”
and mean it. Only how to shape dough
in ways that implied it. My mother would
watch from the kitchen table, and I
would wonder if she’d ever said it.

We do not make our passions known,
our feelings other people’s concern.
So we bake, or plant flowers and trees.
We make our love visual and growing.
We make it alive.

These are the moments that matter

the spark of friction
when our hands squeeze
together

the tender press of your lips
against mine

the gentle breath on my neck
that is a love song, whispered

these are the moments I’ll remember
when you’re gone

when you are calling me all the names
under the sun

fighting like a flock of birds over breadcrumbs

pacing like a  hungry lion with a deer between its teeth,
blood running down it’s mouth
contorted in an insane grin

I will not remember that

I will remember this

I saw the ghost
of you

on the pillow
next to me

as you slept

and I realised
I had to leave

before the ghost
became me