It doesn’t matter what I think. It doesn’t matter what I say.
I don’t matter.
It’s one matter of the brain. It’s another –
matter of the heart.
I’d cry, I’d scream. I wish I would.
It’s on repeat. This repetition
Of interlocked tongues and tugging hairs
Of touching toes and mingled breaths
Of foreplay, fervour and after-sex.
It’s a cycle – circular and round – infinitely
Always back to where it began:
an object of self-destruction, of self-obliteration, (and ever more) of self-loathing.