You, again.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget I am a living breathing human. 

Occasionally I feel like a pork chop in the butcher’s window, just waiting. 

Have I ever told you being single is harder at the weekend? 

Me saying “don’t get it on my face” made it instantly soft. 

I’m sorry if I should be less vocal with any complaints. I’ve never been an extra-marital fuck. 

My pleasure is often impeded by wondering what your kids look like, so please stop assuming I can come on demand.

Have I ever told you being single is like being trapped in a room with yourself? And there are no windows to gaze out of, only piles of dirty clothes and empty voids.

I want to get sucked into a portal, eat ice cream on the beach, and then go fuck something. 

It’s hard to stop wondering why you haven’t called.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll go throw myself off a bridge to check I’m still alive, if that’s not too dramatic for you.

Maybe you’ll stop being an arsehole and we can all move on.

Don’t think about your daughter.

I am wearing a masculine shirt with socks and sandles and I am not giving a flying fish cake no matter how stupid that sounds.

I am thinking about you in a Canada Goose jacket and nothing else.

Where is my ability to think straight when your body is near mine and we are reaching for the kettle?

Is it possible for two people to make a cup of coffee together in exactly equal measure?

I am looking out the window at the rain and thinking about your wet-look hair.

I wish the last time we fucked we weren’t listening to Placebo. I wanted you to think about your hands around my throat instead of your seventeen year old daughter. That’s how hard becomes soft.

I am the wet flannel that slipped off your towel rack.