I like to stroke the unsullied top of the biscuit spread
Private and confidential, like a letter informing you of banking charges
levied specifically at you, the –
sweetest, my Fahrenheit sod
Bringing me offerings that
look like warmth
dovetailing with utopian
(i.e. safe? ish) hedonism and something
sad, a bit more desperate,
promising a closeness like
collision, like pain.
I panicked for three hours
Before you rang me
And then I hung up on you
Because that’s how it feels to
declench all your muscles at once
Even the ones which were
looking out for other people
I don’t know what happens to them
In this case, I guess they feel like I do but
Turned inside out so that I’m
The strong one, spiky, aloft.
Yeah, yeah, I need a hug, too
probably
But if I give in now, all is suuurely lost.
Or maybe I just didn’t shut my eyes
Tight enough to stop overthinking it
Still, nothing changes
And now I’m all steel, not realising it in my body
Cutting straight lines through the static like
Tears that dry up when someone comes
Or the dissipation of pleasure, signalling some lasting lack
