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.

But I’ve always been an angry drunk.

It’s frustrating. Like the reoccurring dream where I try to remove a garment and it snaps back on. Don’t you get it?  I just want to remove my dungarees.

There are questions inside of questions. Tiny questions hiding inside big questions like why do I exist like this and should I eat less meat? I shout the questions to the abyss and nothing comes back. I am Zack Braff, Peter Sarsgaard and Natalie Portman. I am shouting in the rain in a bin bag, every day, inside myself. Yanking the dungarees, losing parts of myself.

And every day it’s total annihilation. Drunk and sad, and sex with married men and drugs and shrugging and 2am messages to the man who never, ever loved me. And I’m empty and I’m lost and I wish it were a game of hide and seek. I just want to be found.

But I’ve always been an angry drunk.

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.