Tip it in the bin
I have an ounce of love left,
it makes me want to share this Kit Kat with you,
you suck the chocolate and I nibble the edges,
you crush the red wrapper and I fold the sliver foil,
you joke about how I have O.C.D,
‘only crazy people fold rubbish.’
I bite the wafer and say,
‘only a gay man would suck on a chocolate bar.’
We tip our political incorrectness in the bin and sup coffee,
you then give me that wink that hides all sorts of sins,
and I give you a smile so I don’t open my mouth,
shit will fall out and I hate to be the one who stinks.
My obsession: I listen to the ‘The Doors’
when you don’t call,
you get stuck in traffic every Tuesday,
we both know it’s not our car you’re riding.
It’s her, or some her,
a skinny long legged girl
that never eats chocolate or shares it with you,
and it makes me sad that music is a better boyfriend than you,
it lets me cry and doesn’t tell me I’m being too sensitive or
an over-emotional fool.
Maybe you’re right.
My compulsion: I’m always checking the phone. I speed dial.
You have been caught but you don’t know that I know,
Your tongue can lick the sweet residue from your teeth, and
take no trace of me. Come Tuesday, I’m a flick in the bin.
I do have a disorder, it’s you.
Danielle Jackson has been published in issues
of All things Girl, Horace Magazine, Sheffield Star, Gothic
Fairy tales ezine, Origami Condom, The Delinquent, Argotist
Online, Word Riot, Birds on the Line, and Bent pin Quarterly.