are you?



look at me. what a mess

crying, snivelling, fucking mess

and it’s only been seven months

[five, since I last heard your voice]

your voice

how I’ve longed to hear your voice,


all those times when I felt like throwing up

just because your name flashed up on my phone

at four


six am


how my heart would fall into my stomach when there was a knock at the door


[in the early days]

when I heard a siren…

I lost count of the times I’d check your room afterwards

and when you were here, I’d watch you sleeping sometimes

are you still breathing?

are you?

too many thoughts of you

lying in a smoke filled room full of wasted bodies


“snakes, not mates”

or in a piss stinking cell alone

time to think, or sober up

whichever came first

you turned things around


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