My Type

I will crave you in 2012, when nobody else does, because crushes rarely last seasons, and the ones that did, they got you, had you, emptied your insides like a pineapple core deflowerer, and there’s a specific bin now for what you are: innards, entrails, skins, peel and pips.

And the unfashionable-ness of it, of you since the decade spilt over into an uncategorisable event period, is what entices me, has been my problem since maturity, puberty, the nineties, when I thought I’d marry Mark Paul Gosselar, instead of Brad Pitt; always one for the realistic.

I could commit to a surname change or dabble in clinical words spread sexually and I’d avoid or read magazines about you and savour the information like it was secrets you’d give, precursors to vows, and I’d enter every waiting list, expect a positive outcome, fuck statistics because I’m not a 0.1, a negative 2.0, and even the 56 or 58 that failed, I’m challenge-able, will you, win you, can write a mean speech, essay if that’s what it takes to woo. And my veins are ripely varicose, like banana skin creases or George Clooney’s old eyelids or blood in chicken or string strewn at the bottom of a yoghurt or a stalk as I squeeze any last water out.

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