The wanting

Greasy and hung-over on a South Eastern train 

I busted out of London’s smog-cocoon, where
I had once again reached 

the full limit of myself. 



I bought instant coffee from a man with eyes
as cloudy as semen. He blinked his ugly DNA
and I blinked back and told him, if he wanted to, 

he could have my heart in a bowl

and rip it into confetti, 

but he never replied.
Like foldaway furniture

I packed up my hope of companionship.

I walked through Beach Alley, where I realised 

there are two types of people: those who think
too much about dying, and those who’d rather die
than think about death.

I only fear death when I’m in love, part of

a diaphanous whole.

I scratched a pebble with a shell and the shell broke.

Existence is beautiful, but it’s never whole, 

with a fist full of seawater I wiped away 

the last of his Atrazine love that trickled down my
thigh from time to time.

Somewhere along the harbour I decided: I’m going to be fine.

My heart may be laced with the gentle deaths of one-night stands but 

I’m young enough to laugh it off and I laughed so loud I heaved my
liver out onto romance novels in the 95p bookshop.

The wanting is what I fear the most

the wanting.