if you are tired and turning
to face the window only
to see your trembling eyes
smeared across the tar
under tyre marks, under rain
then maybe it’s easier
than picturing perfectly
their bodies intersecting
like yours cannot intersect
under claw marks, under linen
and you hate yourself knowing
that you were above this
until you weren’t anymore
and you don’t know what to do
to get back to that point
or who to be, or who you are
you’re feeling too much
and it’s not your fault
but it’s your responsibility
and it hurts but you can’t let it
you’re joking with yourself
to pretend like they’re not
laughing and pointing
tying knots over your oesophagus
in your head, in your circus
clownfaced in your selfishness
every projection counting down
the limit on their patience
before the room is empty again
and you’ve only got you left
/// 