Spilt Milk

My mouth tastes of peaches and iron

on the sixth night of my sickbed, waiting

for my limbs to work again.

Pins force me together, white flares in X-ray grey,

and my hands are shaking.

They’d still if he would hold them,

but that happens less now

since the risk of touch was beaten into us.

 

When I’m fixed we’ll take the train,

hometown to London station.

We’ll sit in open space, and fill it.

My skin is steeled.

The next time we kiss,

these faggot lips won’t split.

 

Originally published by Two Play Zine.

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Spilt Milk