Ah, I can’t force tears

I have my own to get on with

shouldering it,

looking back resentful

and dragging it with me still.

My pack,

loaded with skins and burnt out bodies

reeking of sin.

It’s mine

I can own the shame

the neon phallus, the drink,

the scars on my fat white wrists.

It lingers in my insecurity

my displacement

the worry I will wrong foot myself somehow

and fall,

dragging the heavy curtain,

beaded with little leads

down around my ears.

 Lies I’ve told, scurrying round my feet,

waiting for the scant light,

the unsteady step

to trip me.

Oh I will bounce

but only long enough

for the head to jar back, smashing teeth to shards

feel bone break through at my elbow,

lift a shaking hand to feel the dent and chasm on my skull

then lie back

sick, fading to a nuclear white

bleaching me out.