And yet —

If you were a band, I’d call you The Dodo Birds:
Captain Superior, Mr In-Charge, Dummkopf Diktator, Cock-A-Doodle-Doo
You stand in your privileged place on a plinth with the other colonial criminal cunts playing air guitar and miming the words
You push all the buttons and tweak all the knobs from the control room in your bunker
Create chaotic cacophonies
From your cushy cocoon
Push this button and I’m by your side, Master
Turn this knob up slowly and I’m wet for you
Dial this one down and I’ll submit, suck, slurp
Play me rough like a fiddle until your hate is discharged into me
Until your batteries are recharged by my solarity
Take my joy and implant pain
Do it over and over
Again and again

It always starts like this:
You give me reason to believe
Ignite faith and hope
I leap into you and float in your love
Until it dawns on me, bit by bit, that it’s poison
The same tasty kind I’ve been fed since birth
It’s so familiar, like eating the same thing for breakfast every day
You learn to trust it
You learn to eat shit

You’ve been killing me slowly while extracting nourishment: a parasite
You’ve drained so many bone dry that they can’t provide anymore
Empty husks
You turn to me for fresh new life because I’m not quite spent
Not yet
I have so much love to give and to get
I’m so eager to connect
And yet —

I fucking love you

The fact is I don’t care
I love you anyway and I always did
It was a slow awakening
A remembering of you
Getting to know the already known and remembering
And what can I do with love other than give it?
Should I swallow it because you quake?
Perhaps I’ll lie down and marinate in my love
Masturbate in it
It’s what they all tell me to do:
Give love to myself
It’s such an abstract concept:
Give love to myself
As if there are two of me:
One to give and one to receive
I think I’ll radiate it instead
To withhold my love is to disrespect me and you
Gives shadows too much credence
I want to be who I once was but without turning into a bitter fruit
Useful only for cakes and medicine

That thing

Oh Dad
That thing you tried to protect me from
That lurks in men and ripe boys
That threat
That thing
Was already brewing
I was already in training with
That thing you couldn’t see
But which you knew
Was preparing me
Under your nose
Grooming me
That thing
Oh Dad

This is for all of you — you are all the same

So you transferred all that self loathing, all those tiny cuts on your wrists and the brushes against your throat with the noose and the boozy hazes of pills and food and feral fucking into the cauldron of your heart, heavy and blackened, and you let it simmer along with a little of my love, and a little of hers, and hers too, and hers, and the love of your lonely, frightened children, and you boiled it up into a red hot rage, which you let spill over, out into the world in the hope it will release you like cumming does from the violence of all that emptiness and self-hatred and isolation. The isolation that echoes around in your head like a ping pong ball pinging round inside the walls of the empty house of your skull, like your brain-on-love concussed, dumb and bouncy like a puppy and oh-so-giddy, and when I release you first and you cum from the shock, then you die a little. La petite mort. I bring you to climax and then I leave you just like the others did. Each time you die a bit more inside and la petite mort becomes not so petty. Each time you die you have to add another patch of gummy newsprint to your papier-mâché carapace. A flimsy veneer that protects you from leaking out. It dissolves whenever you go out in the rain. You’ve died so many times now, all you are is a resurrection, a bump in the fabric of space-time, a random pin prick in a stagnant muscle, jolting awake, a spooked horse bolting, a whisper of a curl of a tendril of sulphurous gas, stinky, an inconjurable demon just out of view yet acrid to the nostrils. I see you in flashes. I see your teeth gnashing inside the TV of my blackened brain and they are sharp. Thankfully you are much too ephemeral to be able to bite me. Instead, you gnaw away at my psyche like a maggot, and hers too, and hers, and theirs, burrowing in deep so you can occupy space and bodies and reality, so you can live through your hosts and draw oxygen through possession. When they wrote about The Devil, they meant you.

I want —

I want —
I want, I want
I want and you shall give it
And if you don’t
I will creep round your edges
Scanning until I find the soft bits
Studying you while smiling

[Poking imperceptibly until you break]

I want —
I want, I want
I want and I shall have it
I will move the rudder in the night
Steer things towards my destination
This is not a shared journey
It is mine and you are my sailor

[Navigate stormy seas for me]

I want —
I want, I want
I want and you will give it
And if you don’t
I will scan the edges of another
Find one with softer bits to poke
Foist upon you a chill breeze

[Don’t feel rejected, you had your chance]

I want —
I want, I want
And I will engineer it
There are no shared journeys, my love
The path we walk is mine
And you will clear it
For me

[Get out your long blade, ease my way]