There may come a day when cooking comes easy,
when sinking into the driver’s seat does not inspire crash fear.
My skull will rise from the washing up
and weep, crumble bitterly into pale-blonde ashes for
the people who might have mattered.
Already I feel cataracts of violet smother evening playgrounds.
Already my old diaries seem like graffitied toilet walls,
scrawled with names I am beginning to forget the sounds of.
These turtle-dove hands are comfortable in silence,
with the trailed cemetery of mugs steaming the path to my extinction.
After all, I have never liked oysters. I can’t enjoy the
lustre like others can. The taste jars in my throat.
After all, I have been playing hard to get for 19 years-
who cares if I keep my bottle-cap moon for another, 1, 2, 10?
They already told me Father Christmas isn’t real.
This heart of mice bones may never stop searching the Sahara
for something worth drinking champagne for.
Teeth still can’t speak my name: Perhaps we want too much.
God is a person hiding
in the thick-libraries of planets just like us.