untitled

* these pieces are from several years ago at university, presented as a way of charting the changes in my writing, and re-evaluating pieces I was very happy with at that stage.


She is a slut,
whenever we have sex
she pretend's I'm someone else;
The handsom millionaire,
The burly fireman,
The wild rock musician.

I, on the other hand, love to make love to her.
No imagined Playboy bunny
or inflated Baywatch babe.
Just her on the matress on the floor.

My eyes run over her,
perfect imperfections.
I taste her breath
thick with the flavour of ashtray.

Everything she can't see in me
I see in her.

She hates me, but when
she finds herself alone
she runs to me and I
smooth the worry from her hair,
flutter butterfly kisses across her forehead
and she says she loves me.

Her love, like her happiness
is a lie.
In the morning she will fly away,
my heart and wallet go with her
both to return empty.

When I close my eyes
I still see her,
life trickling from her wrists
like that time I found her.

How can I feel so much
for someone who feels so little?
Her suicide would have been painless,
the release she wanted so much.

But mine is agony,
as the steel parts my flesh
I know I'll never see her again
but it's better than the torture of loving her.