Manhandled. Dead petals waiting for the dustpan, like revisiting an old grave. Now this an unfamiliar place, three shades of my Grandad’s caravan cling to my sheets. Fat syllables fill my mouth and tie my tongue, so that I can only say your name in my sleep Presented with a forked road. Still. Each of your paths lead, me down to the river to drown me I’m left staring at shredded cuticles. Wishing I could abort you from cobweb memories. Choked, black, undesirability spears itself under my eyelids when only the moon is awake. Break. One vertebrae for each imagined misdemeanour. Cigarette smoke sucked up through a ten pound note. but I’ll always have this skeleton.