Wednesday, 10 August 2011

It was lovely, it was awful. It was that kind of feeling.

Crrrkfloopp, the rusty hinges run headlong into the bouncy silence of flesh.
You peel the door off them, and I schlep those fingers across a thousand miles of pain, to my face.
It's settled then, there's worse ways for chewed nails to look.
My digits are having a heart attack, they're flushed with a hot, biting, terrible ache,
one is turning a colour whose name I'd hate myself if I knew.
My forbearance is exemplary, it's this big haired girl whose making me look bad -
holding out her hand to you like that, crying those chubby, kindergarten tears.
Stop it, you girl, you stupid girl! What's he going to do exactly, tell the door it's been bad?
Stupid girl, you bring our hand back right this minute and say you're fine.
No! NO! Don't you da...

Iced, caressed and splayed across your heart, my fingers covered by yours.
I am collected to you, nose to the blue squares on the inside of your collar,
lips smooshed against your buttons - why do you keep so much rubbish in your shirt pocket?
You're attempting to hum.

Where is that door? I want to hug it.
But later. Not now. God, not now.

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