the suicide.

Cold glass, jagged
and sharp, kisses the tips
of my fingers,
spewing out rubies onto the
cold white tiles
of this sterile tomb
as I look at my reflection
and peel it away,
ashamed to look at the
fallacy that was once myself.

I see a shredded image of the past.
Was I ever young?
Was I ever beautiful?
I longingly await a reply
that will never arrive
for you are older and you have your women
and your cars
and your cigars.

Now, my eyes don’t cry –
they excrete.

The fat girl within me wants
to eat.

Instead, as calm as a
general at gunpoint
I take to my wrists.
It’s easy – those websites were true.
Who’d have thought?
Just like chopping spuds
or beef tomatoes.
Pukka.

In an exhausted haze, I turn to myself
to look at the present
and now, I am red
so very red
and my eyes are red
and my mouth
and my neck
and my hands

She still wants to eat.

It never occurs to me
that as I sit there
bleeding my past to the tiles
you may be thinking of
me.

Instead I think of
her face, and your ecstasy
and the moment we locked eyes
as she revelled in your deliciousness

Now I’ve fucked us all.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: