The pricking of me is a constant prodding to socialise
into the fabric of cheap conversations.
There was a moment where I let you have a part of me. I lost that part. I can’t get it back. Forever carried away on the camel backs of time to a deserted oasis, a mirage of flowing streams, a dream of luxury amongst bareness, empty silicon, salty faced, chapped lips, dried lungs, cracked feet, hot breath bareness. Nothing will bring that part back to life.
I won’t socialise the rest of me.
Your handbag looks great on you is not something you will hear from me.
Who does your nails
Did you hear what she said
David’s got cancer
Anne cheated on him
His kid is autistic
Their home got taken away from them
What about my home?
The home of me
I promise, I’m not wallowing, I just need you to snap the fuck out of your dreariness.