I’ve been pretending I’m glad
since I turned you/you turned me away.
But if I’m honest I’ve been quite sad
(in a familiar kind of way)
and I’ve blocked it out by asking if you’re okay.
And now we’re acting at being friends again
and I’ve been round all these bends before
and they stopped making sense before,
so I’m sure they’ll be round
to plough at my solid ground - again.
They’ll twist my spine
until its voice can be heard again
and make my ribs crack out
all too similar words again.
Again and again and again, until I remember…
You are the lingering smell around all cesspits,
you are the worst and the best bits of hell.
With your hate twisted face and your rancid grace
you are the rotten part of my heart
- the way gentle things fall apart.
Don’t get this wrong, don’t misunderstand it.
You are the demon brand and I’ve been branded.
And now this poem’s taken your place
because it’s also a fucking disgrace.
But please remember, I’m always around.
I’m a grave with a dream
of my wooden-corseted queen
and her very own burial mound.
D’ya still wanna be friends?