Addressed to UK (II)

I still check up on you.
Occasionally.
Not going far, stopped always
by a flash of pain and shame
that dances across my eyes,
raising my pulse into an incredible
chorus of, ‘Escape! Escape! Run while you can!’

But there I go.
Seeing if you’re still alive,
hoping you are doing well,
praying that you are finally happy.

Anything more and I would feel an intruder.
A spectrum in the night, living in the past
and finding changes in the present.

‘Escape! escape! Run while you can!’

My full frame crumbles,
I grow a little smaller,
head facing the floor because
that’s what I’m worth.

‘Escape! escape!’

A moth to the flame,
my fingers burn to a crisp
each and every time, but
look at how often I return.

‘Run!’

That’s what they call perseverance.
Or stubbornness.
A masochist, more likely.

I’ll learn my lesson, one day.
But that day has not come,
even though I wish it would.
To dull my thoughts into an
even neutral. No longer
affected by such small things
like your name,
your face,
your memory,
your taste,
your laugh,
your everything

that I fancied to be mine.

 

‘This is not a drill! Evacuate!’

 

A masochist, is what others call it.

A delusion, a vision in the clouds
even though I carve our names in the ground.
Crossing out mine with a line through the middle.

Asking again and  again the same question, hoping for an answer.

A masochist, a delusion, a day-dream
that will not quit.

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