i is just one letter
but it's also fifteen years of
self-doubt
and forcing confidence into
the veins at
the very core of the word
and introducing myself
into a world of
******* goddamners
who think that 'societal anxiety'
is like a fear of socialists or something
and don't really care anyway
and take my
'hello, i am not afraid'
for granted
because
what kind of idiot
would ever be afraid of
a letter like
i

***** snow on the sidewalk
like someone's old dandruff
and cups of hot chocolate
like murky brown eyes.
Bright knitted jumpers
like over-bright smiles
and fairy-light nooses
like striped knotted ties.
Sleigh bells and reindeer
like slaves' chains a-clanking
and gaily wrapped presents
our cling film wrapped hearts.
Street lamps; a search light -
cars are our convicts
and saccharine kisses
like sour apple tarts.

My mind keeps pictures of you up on its walls
                            again
                         ­         and again
I find my thoughts drifting down that river of memory
orbiting around you, like forces of gravity drawn
to the idea of us (if there even is an us)

If I could then I’d lock you outside my brain, leave you out there to rot
in the abyss, where your words couldn't penetrate me
and your lips that work like anesthesia forbidden to numb me again

I won't do you the injustice of romanticizing your imperfections
You're no nebular, you're a black hole, a gaping flaw in creation
Your eyes that held millenniums of history, now hold me no future

You made me forget what it feels to have stability
To not walk out of a room and forget why I left
You make me want to shred the skin you touched
Like a reptile, to become reborn, purified from my past.

There never were any butterflies in your stomach, only parasites
but you fed them to me readily like a disease

So no, I won’t dedicate you another love poem
                 no I want (deserve) better
This isn't what love should be
I’ll write you a poem where the words convulse on the page
and you’ll forget to read it (you always do)

Standing in the shadows is a lonely clock that's painted red
Made from blood and carved from bone - a clockwork core that's cold like lead.
A convoluted clockmaker sits wizened by its feet
He sits and thinks, nods and knows, the clock will not its maker meet.
He tells himself he's but an ember, tells his clock it will tick on
Wrapped in black like black's in fashion, with no heart save pendulum.
He knows the clock is icy fire, if he, the maker, is its spark
He looks upon his ticking beast and knows his hand has made its mark.
He lets his clock keep ticking, never stopping, won't tell why,
And its maker curls up on the floor; his final breaths are whimsic sighs.
His lonely clock keeps ticking, ticking, ticking - ticking, ticking still,
Standing regal in the shadowed room, but bending to its maker's will.