Don’t you dare come to me,
when we’re bloated and content,
to take my hand,
gaze into my eyes and beg me
to make you the happiest man alive.

Ask me when we’re alone together,
decaying with the howls of night
and watching the plaster swirl past us.

Ask me when I’m bleeding in the bath tub
and you’re narrowing your eyes,
indignant at the madman in the mirror.

Ask me when I’m screaming sweat,
dripping your name,
and the neighbours gnash their teeth in the clouds.

Come to me,
bejewelled from the shower,
and say,
     “You really must marry me, you know;
     it’s only appropriate.”

And come with all your cynicism,
sarcasm;
tell me we can try it for a year
then end a whirlwind romance
with a hurricane divorce.

Tell me not to waste time
changing my name,
not to unpack my clothes
or mix our cutlery.

Drop on one knee and say,
     “You know I don’t believe in all this,
     but my mother’s been hassling me.”

And maybe then, just maybe,
we can go on believing
that none of this is real.