from the inside you don’t stick
out. Dark as stout you fade in a chocolate
sky. The stars shine around you. But
a storm’s inside you.

When you’re torn
from the outside everyone runs. Hot
as the sun you burn them with scorn. You’re
adorned with spikes, a cactus on ice.

When you’re torn
from the top you pop as a balloon. All the
air leaks out of you. Men stare as you
shrivel up like a prune. They scoop you up
with a spoon.

When you’re torn
from the bottom men walk over you
as the leaves in autumn. You bleed
orange, yellow and red, unravelling as
a loose thread.

When you’re torn
in pieces you’re as fleece is shorn,
a soft, billowing pile of mourn. Till you harden
as the ground in winter. You splinter into
toothpicks men stick olives in. Here’s a toast
to “this might have been”

When you’re torn
in two you’re half –
not this or that. You’ve
a twin brother that smothers you. Not
a day to cover you.