Love is

Love is

as much free will

as free will is

throwing up

when you’re drunk.

Kick me in the chest

squarely and calculated

with your scuffed up boots,

all worn through and muddy

or bloody

from pacing corridors,

passing bolted doors,

as if they were someone else’s

arteries, that is to say,

not mine.

For you are not my lifeblood,

though you were ecstatic

to drink of my flesh.

I have too much

for one

so substanceless.

Carbon and a spark

are all that make up

your foot

and my torso

as they bump or wander

into each other like ex-lovers

on a plane, or tube trains

and strangers. Dead, buried

in one fell swoop. Entombed

in my core, all molten,

listen to the ribs snap, crackle

like sparklers gasp, titter, hiss,

kiss the bucket.

Your penchant for wearing gloves

to touch me lost all feeling

in my hands and,

as my split ribs slip into

the necessary organs, I think of you

less as a person and more

as the storm that brought down

all the fences in my garden

one Bonfire Night

when I was young

and pure enough

to still fear fire.

The End

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