I’m an expert suppressor, buried decades in scalp skin, can instantly sink an unfittable thought quick like pulling greys or weeds or butterflies from veins when the drip ends.

I don’t want you in my body any more than my body wants what it has already and each unwanted thought, I peel the eggshell off so that the fleshy egg underneath, hard boiled and slick soft, is another viewing experience altogether.

But bodies have habits of unburying themselves if the job’s not original thorough, and that thought in that pub months ago, is still there. I wait for it to evaporate like nerve coating in my brain and my spine, but nothing uproots it, not any amount of convince or evince or conjecture or lie or physical altercation.

I’d like to rewrite feeling but apparently it just is: you feel and fuck you for trying, fuck you for having an opinion. You love and that love just is.