And sitting with you
I get to relive exactly where I’ve been before.
Only days ago.
Come full circle.
My flip-book details the same seconds of
unrequited confusion and unwanted heart to neglect.

Life is made up of cycles.
All it is
are cycles breeding more cycles;
circles one can choose to stop circling
to replace it with another.

It is the mixture that we cycle through;
the number of repeats,
the speed with which we tumble, and roll,
and dive head-first into an oblivion with all the colours
of artworks and fireworks, vibrancy and vitality.
The people who make up small cycles, large cycles,
the in-between lonely transition between new circles and loops
to contemplate, fight, submit under gentle lulls and thrilling loops,
that we educate ourselves to thrive upon, those that
we unlearn because of disappointment.

Each cycle doesn’t make it the
love affair it once was.
The friendship it could have been.
The tempting mirage of escape we were to each other.
The fuel and coursing fire that once was our motivation.
It doesn’t get simpler to manoeuvre the longer you cycle,
with you, without you, around you, for you, because of you,
too scared to lose you…
it’s still the same sticky sharp bend in the pipeline
the same foreplay of games;
‘now, who loves you most?’;
fingered silences’;
your heated chase and me always one step behind;
I have to branch off the loop
to prevent myself falling over you in the dark;
toxicity bubbling under surfaces red, raw,
swollen and teary;
I know my triggers.
My shotgun is you.
I know I feel something- to not feeling anything at all.

I may only be able to walk in circles,
but at least I can make them the right circles to trace.
I need that physical space; that walk-through
corridor in my head.

And now I get to sit with you,
realising I’ve been here all before,
not quite so long before.
Only days ago.
Come full circle.
And I think it’s time for me,
to be over your cycle.

On to the new circular track.
And the later loops and whirls I get to
embrace
on my rounds.
Well and truly,
over you.

I’m worried for you.

I’m worried about what I’ve done with you.

I’ve buried you in the sand, grazed your skin with fingernail cuts;

half moons pattern your arms and back like wallpaper.


I shouldn’t succumb to this.

I’ve dragged you into a pit and stored you in a hollow.

I shouldn’t need to pick a random lover, I shouldn’t need them now,

urgently.

I shouldn’t crave the physical I know you yearn from me behind the

silence

that snakes around the room.

Behind the intensity and firmness of your face.

I wish I didn’t see it all so keenly, a sensory power I dredge up

from secluded stores and hidden vaults.


I shouldn’t have fallen into my own snare every single time you

pull closer, warm breath and lips and teeth,

and I push your chest away.


I don’t understand why I have to do this.

Puppet pulled on strings to do strange and filthy acts;

gaining strength and poise not necessary but pleasurable,

lying with you knowing I’m with company but feeling so alone,

so cold and dusty and ***** on the inside.


I lose myself in a moment, spending all the time

thinking in the moment.

I’m so wrapped up, I don’t hear you mutter to relax.

I will not do this with you, because it means

ultimately hurting one another, in particular you.

I will not try to encourage you, because me lying next to you

knowing you will hand yourself over, is like slipping on ice.


I taste blood in my mouth.

I think it’s yours.

I bled out years ago, over the bedroom and into the bathroom;

showering off filth and wetness and ****** handprints.

That lingering, thick smell of sweat and fluid and nothing.


I’m so sorry I can’t be strong enough to resist my shadows,

my faded lights and creeping tongues;

I’m so sorry I set them on you, like vultures given

the scent of already culled meat.

I am your predator, hunting amongst the heaving animals,

long into the stillness of the empty dawn.

I’m so sorry, sweet, that I will reach around and take something from you.

I’m so sorry I tried to protect you and betrayed myself.


I wanted to embrace you and welcome how you felt in my arms,

I’m sorry I just couldn’t express it.

I wanted to make sure to uncomplicate us; secure that safety you felt

with me guiding you too all those vulnerable places to touch together,

I’m sorry I just couldn’t express it.


I still long to try again.

Will you let me try again?

I know that the choice,

littered like puzzle pieces before you,

is a hard one.


I know you don’t mean to break me.


I know you want to conceal my cracks,

pointed edges,

gnarled and twisted,

before I get to see that they are still there.


I know you want me to wake up beside you, hopeful and

cured.

I know you want me to stop gathering my defences,

every time you throw a question over my fence.


I know you want me to be the one.

I also know that you are beginning to question if I am the one.


I know I follow an endless road. It’s always muddy and cold

and runs parallel to yours.


I know I seem settled but that’s the excuse and lie

I want for you to understand. That’s the image I

build for you.


I know I won’t be what you go to bed dreaming of.

I can’t live in fantasy with you, even though I can fall into

daydreams and blissful reveries of someone I could have been.


I know I ensnared you,

lured you into my bitter web.

I stalk around our trap like a purposeful spider,

self assured and cunning,

my body waiting for a moment to strike.

I know I’ll hurt you deeply; so much it’s

enough to cut you lose

from the net before I do something unforgivable.


I know we love the pull of each other. The safety we revel in, when

we pose as dangerous threats to each other.

The fiery lust and desire sparked when people look away.


I know I fell in love with you, but I also know that doesn’t mean

all that much to you.

I know it doesn’t mean you will always love me.

I know we hold each other until the first person lets go,

stops clinging to open arms;

warm bodies turn cold.

And I know one of us always leaves.


I know I am myself, and I wouldn’t change it for you.

Not for all your kisses or caresses or late-night passions.

Not for the eyes I bathe in or for all the sweet promises you break.


I know that I will always be me.

And I know I’ll continue to be me, strive to be me,

hold on to what I am, burn

as fierce as I do,

long after you take what’s dedicated yours

and run.