scar tissue

who are you / now that my name
no longer shakes holes in your mouth?

I asked for the rain to come and here
it is now. here we are, now.

                                    I mean, I could never
write about love until I forgot how the letters
tasted. how the syllables felt guilt-heavy
weighing down on my tongue. all the sins I thought and
never said aloud. forget the fog. don’t

you sometimes want the sky to just
open up above you? aren’t you sick of
being kindling & not burning?
                        what the hell are you for?
                        God, doesn’t
anyone know
how to feel anymore?

                                                your love,
and my glasses in the boot of your car. an empty
mug. your hand fisted in the folds of my
collar, dragging me relentlessly towards a
tragedy. no one in the theatre, but
we still play our parts like the whole world is watching.

I’m talking about the first time
you kissed me / my whole body a crime scene.

Yves Olade is a history & classics student, living in the south of England. Published in The Rising Phoenix Review and Bombus Press, his poetry is upcoming in the Horn & Ivory zine, Kingdoms in the Wild, and elsewhere. An avid documentary fan, he hates driving and loves travelling. More of his poetry can be found at or on Twitter: @yvesolade.

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