You are an organ recently removed
leaving the chest a gaping chasm.
An apparition you see in the mirror;
it should be you, but it’s an impostor.
The pattern of scars badly hidden
on the arm of the girl sharing your bus.
You are the service, now interrupted
suddenly by the ‘person under a train’,
the acid you put on your tongue to see,
expand, discover, but all you could see
were ways to die and nowhere to hide,
no one to trust and no reason for it,
no reason for any of it, none at all.
You know where my skin is thinnest,
and where my backbone is weakest
but above all, you know how I trust.
Whatever you are, no need to disguise it.
I will trust you until it’s too late.
You are my ignorance. You can use it
how you wish. I’d rather stay open
to people, to strangers, to experiences.
I’ve looked into the eyes of threat,
I have seen it’s face. It has only one face.
Those I trust with ease do not all share it.
You are the screams of an ambulance siren,
the screams of people you can’t see or save,
realising that nobody even knows your name,
nobody will remember you when you’re gone.
You are the door that closes with a click
when the one you love the most walks away.
You are a smile, poised to mask indifference,
you are words you’re too weak to say aloud,
the dead pigeon among a thousand others,
and among commuters in Trafalgar Square,
the slow forgetting of who you once were.
The time, the torture, the terrors at night.
You are arriving too early, we need time.
We are not ready and this terrifies us
because when you whispered words to us
it was not from behind a veil, was it?
I bite down on memories of feeling safe
and ready my eyes to face you once more.
