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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.
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