You parade through my mind, my veins, my eyes and I’m bloody sick of it. What the hell have you done?
You weren’t invited into my headspace, with your lazy smile and relaxed eyes.
A safe distance was enforced, guarding against drunken textual confessions.
I was protecting myself from the throng of flustered feelings.
The smooth scalpel drew paths and plans into the core of my body. Peeled away tissue and tendons, reached in and yanked out the gritty truth.
I don’t regret the hands on my body, God no, it felt so fucking good. I do regret letting you weave your way into my bloodstream and breath, something so sacred that I don’t just give up for anyone. I regret letting you cause this anger to bump against my skull like dodgems.
Naive hope has clutched its chubby hand round mine since birth. Now it tears up, fatty purple droplets, and I can do nothing to stop the cries.
Radio befriends me in the early hours between sunset and sunrise, lies with me until thoughts of you drift off with my dreamy REM.
Rain drops bump into umbrella fabric, in a moment of madness I curse umbrella and cloudy gods and run, feet slamming on pavement as though it was you. Look what you’ve lead me to do – I fucking hate running.