No.42

Your door.

Weathered wood
And paint flecked.
A summers work stripping it back to beauty.

Warm brass belies a cold touch.
A handle worn smooth
with comings and goings. 
Touch it and turn.

But if I did you might
Be there and
It might
be awful.

Letterbox lifted,
I content myself
With a sliver of your
life. 

I open nothing wide,
Fling nothing into the open. 

Shut.
Our door stays shut. 

Camouflage

It’s all a bit too much.
Feel sick
Feel like a prick
Opened my mouth
Let the words come out.

Now you’re laughing
Shouting
Going to prove me wrong
Prove I’m a dickhead all along.

No opinions for me.
You see
I’m thick. A cock.
A chip off the old fucking block.

Amounting to nothing was always my game
Keep my stupidity hidden in blankets of shame
Stay silent stop talking there’s nothing to see
Lose my voice that’s my choice to just stop being me.

It’s easier blending in with the crowd.
You’ll just tell me I’m stupid if I say things out loud.

11.21pm on the h22 bus

Old, unshaved, a bloody hand,
didn’t seem to understand
that riding buses street to street
wouldn’t help him find his feet.

Gingerly sits down beside
a blonde who takes him in her stride.
Mentions hospital, should he go?
Confused he shakes his head, a no.

She smiles and says quite charmingly
‘Would you go there just with me?
It’s sort of where I’m heading to –
we could just pop there, me and you.’

His hand is throbbing, hot and sore.
Bloody tissues on the floor.
‘Is it open? It’s not too late?
There’s probably an awful wait.’

‘I’ll sit with you. No need to fret.
We’ll get you sorted,  won’t we pet?’
This lovely woman with shining hair
Sent from heaven, sent to care.