...and by that I mean
I wander round mistaking you for the positive behavioural patterns of the future when you're really the familiar fucked up habits of my past
you make me want to make myself sick
by lifting heart into mouth like intruding fingers
I'm pissed
I'm in danger of cutting myself in non-artistic ways
I might walk to your house and con trick your Mum into letting me in,
You're a fucking fucking state and you still squat whole wings of my cranium.

In that, if I met the boring rich H.R. cunt you're actually fucking,
there's a tiny chance I might sack him with a paving slab
- ooh, manifold times, until his own mother wouldn't even recognise him, and she's a professional DNA profiler, google reveals,
I'm in danger of making the mistake of thinking love actually means anything in itself
worst of all, of even writing poetry like this

so instead I'm deleting you from phone, facebook, even my events mailing lists for a bit
which, me being twenty-nine is the mature, early-twenties thing to do,
because you make me feel like a teenager again.