Self-portrait

He wanted to make love to me.
Under the moonlight, with the gutter smelling of rotten vegetable peels saturated with the endless rain, his rough hands held my waist, grabbed my shoulder or cupped my face, always invading in comfort
Always in my safe space,
Always a tool, a misplaced screw up, too close and a strange nauseousness from the proximity.

Did I want smoother hands, was that it then? The tears spilled once,
I swallowed the rest with all the elegantine drawing of breath I could muster
The girl he was in love with- so perfect
All these women, so perfect.

And here I was, the darkest scum of the earth, a wasteland trapped in her own head where there is silence.
No, she was not broken, not mad- not going over the edge- she’d never let anyone know
The flat expanse of that girls stomach
She was slightly overweight
Noone could touch her, love her with an ounce of respect
She hated herself.

That night, her breath slowly corrodes from the cheap cigarretes, the carrion birds and she wishes for tiny blue lights and a strange evening when she had been happy,
And the sour taste in her mouth of told you so had not been there
A wasteland, she drifts out of touch,
Resigned to a patient fate,
Of never quite fitting in
Stranded like an illfitting sock

She hardly looked like a sleek, anime haired bit of innocent angst you could pick up on young-adult rentals
She wasnt the kind of girl you fell in love with, as friends- the too nice ones
Or the brilliantly innocent beautiful ones
The coloured, bright florals begging for company.

She was a sad screwdriver, alone and unnatural, yet natural enough to escape notice.
She didnt need saving, didnt need loving
The cash-register dings,
If you ever need help, call her.
She isnt emotional, she wont impose
She will get the job done, most of the time.

Best is, she wont call you with emotional outbursts, and isnt a liability
You could forget her for days, and then ring her up after a month
And she, like a mechanical switchboard operator will
Connect you
A swift conduit
She is transient, non-existent and unremarkable
Like her poetry,
Like herself.

Alone, in love, a barren misconception
A thermodynamic miracle called life, one miracle too many.

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