Devour

I am going to do something regrettable now.

Whimsy, it seems,
is the good mood of a cynic,
and whimsical mutterings
at 3am serve to blot out
screaming thoughts of

nothing.

My ink-stained fingertips trace the outline
on the wall of my rented flat.
I don't
understand.
The ceiling's filled with cracks and
I wish to be on the beach,
buried up to my neck in sand
so that these fingertips can go numb
and no longer
turn the pages of our

romance novel.

Clueless,
I can't think of a better word
as we watch some terrible b-movie and
I can see your Adam's apple
poking out of your pulled up collar.
Do you think you're Elvis?
You don't have the hair or the voice
but I edge my way along the sofa,
waiting for you to make me feel
all
shook
up.

You a vegetarian and I a carnivore
I garnish my steak with your sweat
and eat it raw.
I have to be careful to wait until you're gone
Because you and I both know this is wrong
and if the others knew that
you really eat meat
they'd
judge
us.

Lies.
I am by my nature honest
but also, I'm a sinner.

So we continue watching.

© Hayley Charlesworth