Rubbish

I wish I had told you, not to.
That it didn't matter if you bit back,
rifled through anothers' things,
found their diary and laughed
fucked in their bed
scribbled small mercies on the wall at eye height,
and never cried for an apology.

My tarot cards spell you out,
like shedding skin, they have nothing new to tell.
I could shake you and your cold blue blanket
clean off the bed and still you would not wake.

I have told you all the stories I know,
the tall man with the marbles
the two legged cat
the slice cut out of Clare bridge
and how it took me half an hour to realise
I had carried the Tesco bag full of rubbish
instead of my satchel, to work.