the pile up

It’s Saturday night
and outside I hear a car engine
coughing out its exhausted smoke.

I am much like that car
except I am too far on the inside
and I have a heart,

I think,
I wish I didn’t most of the time --
like on lonely evenings when my petrol-thoughts
steer themselves out of control  
and straight into the wooden floor.
Or when hydrocarbon tears escape through pores,
crawling straight down my cheeks shouting
‘man overboard’
as each droplet jumps from my jaw line.

Or when you are not here,
but I am

and I’m combusting
as you hold a tin-foil star
out of sight
and you tell me even if it’s crumpled
it is still there.

But I do not believe you.

I am suffering from a condition
known as vapour lock, no fuel
is getting to my chest
and your star is cutting my lungs out.
My bones are being crushed
in a head-on collision
with your eyes

and sometimes
I pick up the telephone
and attempt to call you,
but the bland dial tone
reminds me of your voice.