Voodoo God

I lie under blanket sky,
and cry.
It’s not fine
to be left behind
when it happens
this frequently.

I sigh,
and throw the sheets
to the right,
left exposed
in the night.

I fight the remnants
of ‘we’
that never was:
just you and me,
separated
by apathy.

Naturally,
I exist under layers
of my own expectations,
and chant incantations
whilst you grip
my voodoo heart.

His Hands

His hands are new to me,
but I know them well.
I’ve watched them pull pints,
clean glass,
polish brass.

I’ve watched them write words,
touch his lips,
sit on hips,

And now they’re on me.
The fingers I’ve watched be districted
now focus solely on me.

They search me,
like I had taken the pen that had stopped them writing.
Like I had hidden the cloth that had stopped them wiping.

I find excuses for being loved,
because I, myself, am never enough.