To trust a man I’ve never met

I trust a man I’ve never met
To put a razor to my neck.
There with his blade to take great care
As trimming every little hair
He tries to make me someone new;
A lot like one who once you knew.

‘Fore I abandoned self respect
I’d daily trim and keep in check
But since that fall my will is gone,
The hair upon my face grows long.
Untidy and unkempt they say;
What reason do I have to change?

The years they pass and slip away,
I live in memories and pain,
Self loathing grows like mental rust,
I have to learn again to trust,
Yet cannot bring myself to do
The same, with anyone since you.

I sit here staring at a face
Which once in photographs I traced:
The ones in which our lips would meet
As there we stood upon the street.
Back then I was a different man
Now he is gone and so his plans.

This clinging to what was won’t aid
Nor should I dwell in doleful shade
For only in this moment now
Is found the why, the where, the how,
The reason that I let him hold
A blade which shall remove the old.



My brain gives birth
To realisation

I am alone

It is painful
Strangely beautiful


I play with the thought
Turning it over
Feeling its edges
Forgiving softness
With hard reality

I am alone

The truth grows
Not black and white
Reality in shades of grey.


Far from meaning
I do not love you
But I accept
Your choice



“The healing process will take some time.
Take two of these, only when the pain
Grows to be more than you can handle
On your own. It will get easier.”

Flesh, held together by artifice
Begins slowly to knit. Then itching
Starts, and does not care at all to stop.

Memories like scabs, at first are picked
Unconsiously, while itching remains
A constant reminder of the scar
Which has yet to materialise.

The phantom limb pain of your absence,
Which first I masked with pills and whisky,
Anything which would bring me to numb
Oblivion, must be felt in full
If I am to bring myself to health.

Cascading through photographs and words
Which still ring in my ears, an orgy
Of campanologists in full swing,
Though deafening silence remains where
Once I heard your voice so clear and pure;
Is an itch I cannot help but scratch.

If I had held you tighter, would you
Have joined with me completely, then
Perhaps this flesh would still be bonded?

Though undoubtedly you would have pulled,
Struggled free from the intensity
Of my embrace, breaking more than bones
In your flight from my unstoppable
Need for you. Therefore I am grateful
That you chose the scalpel, severing
Arteries as you excised yourself;
Leaving me capable of healing.

I do not want to identify
With the pain, which pulses according
To actions of the day and season,
But yet cannot bring myself to let
The scars heal in full, for the itching
Reminds me how wonderful it felt
To be so loved by you, even if
Only for those long days of summer.