Orienteering

there are landscape dreams scratched on the back of my teeth.
i’ve tried to shake them off and spit them out,
but they stick like honey,
so i swallow. (coating my tonsils)
my empty belly
swells when it knows they’re fake:
real as my morality. causality.
casually, there’s this lie i make
to pull my insides from the skin i hate.

atrophy.

i know i’ve been a bit of a cunt recently.

i hurt this girl with interference bruised on her arms
and an escarpment tattooed on the reverse of her head,
i assume it was Ted
Hughes who put the words there,
but she should have let me draw crow instead.

anyway, at least i can try to match her cliff lines
with my hillsides,
then take a six-figure grid reference
of the sentences i’ve lost socially.

i apologise for saying too much.

i promise that someday i’ll make it good.

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