Your wrist is purple and blue from my grip.

I inherited Granddads strong fingers.

I wanted to break one of your ribs the other day,

show you how tight I could hold you.

You were determined to go through

the ‘dying with cancer’ section of the Macmillan website.

I broke my laptop and spat in your face.

Now you try and entertain me about the world of water

and where in the world it is constant winter.

All I want to do is recall how we kissed the first time, and

if we used tongues.


A fox cries, and it’s as though it’s right outside my window.

I want to go outside, run away with it.

You look so panicked and turn away to wipe your tears

they fall quickly, steadily like salty rain.

It’s like the first time you saw me with the scarf around my head

and said the history on my face had been wiped away,

then covered your mouth.

You thought if you turned,

I wouldn’t know you were crying, that you would become

invisible and things would be a little bit better.


I’m badly stitched and can’t reach to kiss your ear anymore

or smell your hair.


Water tastes like the nurse filled the jug

from a contaminated reservoir.

A few minutes ago

you were telling me

how nothing is simpler than water,

two atoms of hydrogen joined to one of oxygen.



stop the stars from going out,

I’m scared.