bonsoir

it should be more consistent
like that dwelling nonsense I hate so much,
and to wait on subsequence like a dog who bites its master
feels privy and uncouth, ugly and shit-faced as it is,
but one does not need to be polite to be beautiful.
 
it's in this bad temper that you touch his face
and think ‘god, you’re beautiful’ even as he draws blood;
puts his hand between your thighs - just like poetry -
saying ‘this time I’ll be gentle’,
but words are far from kind, and you wonder what hurts more,
the physical him or the emotional you.
 
it’s not easy to forget these things.
not the ones you regret though consensual agreement.
not the very taste of her on your tongue when you know
and you can’t be all she needs because you’re not all you need.
to think you should see it as an act of growth;
a tear is the fabric of your favourite shirt, to be mended,
worn again, because you can’t shed your skin
and change costs more than you can give.
 
don't worry, love.
it's all just a matter of time before sleep
stops leaving you weary.