Oceanic

The bottom of the sea frightens me
like the sound you make when you breathe
like the trail of blood on porcelain white
like the time we fought with no goodbye

Those flowers your mum sent from
Mozambique: bright, tumescent, with
proud stamen – only highlight the fact
we hadn't touched in weeks

but I’d rather swallow glass
than ask if you still love me.

Hiding behind a laptop screen
I write these poems so I can
be alone yet still talk to someone,
anyone who cares enough to
click and read and maybe they’ll find
a piece of me they could take home
to their parents and say this girl
is strange but it’s easy for me
to love her.

And I think about this
about a life with another
whilst you tell me about some girl
you met on the tube
which I thought was rude
because we just had sex
and I bet, she’s prettier than me
and more together
and less
afraid.