For six years,
since I was eighteen,
I have been carrying a white rat
inside my left breast pocket
in a long grey coat.
I have paid attention to no one,
just that rat.
When I ******
two **** victims
who thought they loved me
in two nights,
the rat was there.
The rat was there
when I told them
to ignore the guilt
and remember that
no one needs to know.
The rat was there,
stronger than ever
when I got drunk
and ****** her
in the back of her partner's car
right on the seat where her child
usually sits
whilst someone loved me
from an empty bed.
The rat was there
when I got drunk
and threw him over a table,
and when I threatened to **** myself
if she did this
or she did that.
My rat is currently looking
at a place in the record books
as the longest living rat to date,
and he has survived
in a coat pocket
nibbling at bits of me
when I give him the chance.
No one knows he is there,
they just think it's me.
I tried to show someone once,
but he wasn't there
and we fell in love
for three years,
but the rat
came back
and now I sit
staring at these walls
or pacing frantically,
whilst the rat continues
nibbling away
at the last few remaining
morcels
of
my
heart.