Leftovers

Leftovers

What’s wrong? Can’t you stomach the meat of my raw words?

Why should I melt into pretty poetry

just to make myself heard?

Find different herbs to soften delivery,

heat them on the slow cooker,

turn down the temperature to a simmer,

my heart charred with this slow burner

till I feel as alive as a used piece of furniture,

one that supports the curvature

of your collapsing backbone

as you sink me ever deeper

into your salt and pepper flavours

and I’m sick of how your cooking tastes.

When I force down each mouthful

I’m chewing on hate

and this is too late to salvage,

no amount of running under the cold tap

would ever turn these ingredients back

into their natural state.

Yet here I am, and here I’ve fucking been,

I wait and wait for the texture to change,

trying to sieve through the mush in my brain

whilst I choke on this hate

that’s now starved of patience

from watching you carefully decorate this opera cake.

Repeated layer after layer

and I’m placed in the centre,

a showcase for the shop window display

and how much staying here do you expect me to take?

Your tongue spins sugar lies

made to sound like appreciation

but you’re a self-obsessed chef

dressing deconstructed plates with destruction,

spreading poison

with your rotting food and garlic breath.

You should have learned to savour this

but instead it’s death by leftovers.

Scar Tissue

Scar Tissue

I weigh my heart twice a day,

feed it green tea every morning

and at night, a hot bath

to soak these solemn thoughts

in lavender and rose petals.

Light a candle

to satisfy its thirst with melting wax

until, drunk on hope,

together we collapse under a canopy of stars.

A night sky spun into a spider’s web;

catching my dreams and disturbing my sleep

with air so drenched in expectation

I forget to breathe.

I weigh my heart twice a day,

slice it open, a live dissection.

Locate the source of the heaviness just off centre,

in the space I saved to keep someone else happy

somewhere they never chose to stay.

Cicatrix

Cicatrix

It starts as an itch,

an idea in bits,

scratched

till the skin splits

and ink meets its match

in the bleeding that drips

a pattern onto the page

which sticks,

holding the nib

with firming grip

as the blood begins to buffer

the cut

clotting thick

till the meaning fits

and settles itself

as a scar,

starting at scarlet

to a shimmering blush

when the sparks rush

to the surface

with one sensitive touch,

and when the sensations

created

are all out of love,

its silver surface stays

as a statement

to be heard

for what happens

when the heart tries

to stop the writer’s words.