When I was small I knew I would be married,
That is what happened with mummy and daddy.
But since my wisdom teeth have begun to come through
I understand there’s rarely a ‘we’.
More often a ‘me’ and a ‘you’.
Friend. Adopt a furrowed brow.
Make tea. Sit back.
Take my conscience.
Drown it in Tetley’s if you must,
Attenuate its rankling crust.
Inadequate audience. I fling out my misery for you in deftly choreographed steps.
Flinging from one dizzyingly inappropriate partner to the next.
Boy. Your breath is beer but I can’t hear that over wine.
The glorious wine jacket I’m twirling to show off, turn on, in.
Hand on my thigh. Butterflies.
Higher? Tart.
Higher? Slag.
There? Slut.
But look at your eyes, those unfocussed pints.
I can construct a man behind them.
Who wants to touch my soul. Not cunt.
Now I have wise teeth I will probably be married,
That is what happened with mummy and daddy.
I know now what to do. Use ‘we’,
the idealised construct between me,
and you.
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