Alone is not a state
It is not a choice.
Alone is an imposition.
A lisp, a stutter
A limp
A heart murmur
You are just meant to deal with it.
You see everyone from afar
With their perfectly formed
limbs and vowels.
Their birthday parties
Hen dos, happy hours,
Overcrowded funerals.
You must sit and wonder
For the seventh time in the afternoon
At which point you became a tool
One that is kept in a damp old shed
Until something breaks or needs fixing.
However, if we break or need fixing
we are disposed,
thrown into landfills, pavements
or institutions.
No one holds a funeral for a broken broom, a blunt knife or a faulty screwdriver.