She is the sort of person who you stay away from, no matter what she says to you. You try to run, you try to hide, and when she calls your name and says she needs you now, you have to cover yourself in sticks and leaves and try to stop your shaking limbs from rustling the leaves and giving away your secret hidy hole. She finds you eventually though, no matter what you do. She’s the sort of person that draws you out from your secret hidy hole even if you do manage to quell your shaking limbs to stop the leaves from rustling and giving away your secret hidy hole. You find yourself crawling back to her as she stands in the middle of your life tapping her foot impatiently
‘Where HAVE you been?’
But you don’t know, you never know, you can’t remember anything before looking into those small and yet dazzling hazelled eyes that seem to glitter with the undying fires of depression and anger and hate and love and death and (life?) and caravans and Skegness and seagulls and chips and schizophrenia and loss and cancer and petrol and fags and cinemas and
‘I said “where HAVE you BEEN?!”’
presentations and buses and pizza and oppression and aneurysms and decapitation and myocardial infarctions and hernias and Chinese and vodka and sofas and beds and quilts and sperm on the sheets and vaginal fluid on your hands, drying, seeping into your skin while her saliva travels around your mouth and down your throat and she infiltrates you from all angles (SKIN, MOUTH, EYES, EARS, MIND) and takes over your body but still you cannot speak because all those things you could see you can now feel as well and now you cannot think, you merely do, and that is when you know, that is when you irrefutably know
‘You
Are’
that she has you.
‘Mine.’
