he did this to himself

I am not afraid of motorways and telephone wires anymore.
I just thought you should know that
I want to talk into your chest while you sleep,
I am looking for you under brown rugs, inside loud speakers
all over town, protesting you come and find me
behind the cement mixer.

Fairytales aren’t always that simple, honey, I won’t always be tucked inside bubble wrap
waiting for you to step on compressed oxygen and burst my skin open
so you can touch my heart and lungs and kidneys
with surgical gloves warming your hands.

Maybe you could pay for my gym membership
or take me out for a three course meal full of heavy calories and overweight puddings
before my arms rot and my eyes go limp and their lids touch the floor.

They empty out there
on the cobble next to empty coke cans and broken bottles.

You gnawed on the plastic wrap and forced my chest open
so you could lick my life blood
before deciding whether to chew, or spit
me out like a pellet gun aiming straight for my skull.

That is how my backbone snapped, your teeth clenched
around fresh love like the Sunday roast your mother cooked
when a girl called Anna left  -

I want to be the one in control, you say
as you count the wrinkles below my hair line
and press your knuckle lips onto mine.