eyes lined like a teenage goth because
I love it and
I want to play that Icona Pop song
just to prove it
what’s the name for this intense desire
to be kissed?
does it make a difference if I can’t see your lips?
we can dance each other round the living room,
pull the waves between us too because
these oceans our hangers-on, our third wheels –
we’ll dip like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire
I am jumping higher than you’ve ever seen me go
this is called making peace with the clouds
People I went to school with are getting married
Walking down aisles on their fathers’ arms
Pursued by misty-eyed sniffling from the pews
Angelic and powdered in swathes of white fabric.
People I know are turning their friends to butter
Melting in the face of their first-dance love
Moving the guests to groping under the tablecloth
With fingers still greasy with the meaty main course.
People whose faces I see only on Facebook
Are throwing out their condoms
And buying houses and dogs and cars and fancy blenders
And painting the smallest room yellow, for safety.
Today, I photographed myself with my tits out
And sent the photo to people I used to fuck.
Which is some small achievement, I suppose.