Every Day I Delete You

Read me a bedtime story

I know you do it well

It’s called practice.

Tell me I’m your baby

I’ll suck my thumb

I’ll call you daddy.

Take me

Take me

Take me over your lap

Use your hand.

I want you to fuck me.

I want to hear you tell your wife about me.

Where did you learn to be so sure?

You could sell salt back to the sea and it’d be happy.

Shh, don’t.

Don’t tell me again

You’re away home

Door open

Kisses on three foreheads

While I betray my best friend’s trust

and stray.

Dear heart, you are cold now.

Alone on the stairs and smoking

I think about your room and I picture your house

And I place my objects among your walls

And I tell you about my granny;

She’d be turning.

Your name rattles round my head on the regular

No-ah

No.

Ah.

I mouth the syllables in slow motion

And I pout my lips

And imagine them around your cock

And I see those soon-to-be-threaded eyebrows bobbing above my cunt in a house that’s not mine

And I worry.

A victory dance above the slow fade out,

My blue valentine.

Douse yourself in aftershave,

Mask the sex we just had

And then tell me about your wife again.

Tell me about feeling wanted

Not wanted

Tell me about how much you want me

Don’t want me, please.

I batten down the hatches

On my ruby red heart

As I wipe your come off my stomach

Watching it glisten and trickle

As I ache

As I tell myself to switch it off

As I tell myself to forget it all.

Return to the bedtime story baby

But skip to the bitter end.

Every day I delete you.

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