The tree the old lover left behind

Christ, Life are you still here? There’s laws against this you know. You must have heard it on the news. Or the Archers. Remember Helen and Rob? No one saw that coming. All blind blade and the bloody bulge of blood. Then prison. For her not him. Life’s a bitch, right? And then you die. Coercive control they call it. A posh way of saying abusing bastard.

Controlling is an art, like everything else, you do exceptionally well, you do it so it feels like hell. You do it so it feels real. I guess I could say you have a call.

Shut you out with pills and pillows and blown bulbs I don’t replace. Bitter on my tongue.

Life.

Shut you out with closed blinds and turbo training spinning spinning spinning look Mum no hands!

Life.

Shut you out with other people’s words that trip across the page irrepressible iridescent irreprehensible.

Amen.

Careful, that was almost a cheery thought and we’re not here to talk about cheer, Life.

No sirree.

They say some are dealt a bad hand. But you’ve got to be in to win, right? Pick the card but don’t turn it over. What’s the point. You’re the biggest card cheater in town, Life. And a dab hand at the clichés.

I’m sorry about the clichés. I really am. But these days you sap me

of imagination

of irritation

of imitation

There’s something of the puddle about me. Crumble oil grey violet. Or moody slush. Or sallow sludge. Depending on the season.

And the height of my heels.

And you insist on holding onto the queerest of things. That fig tree my lover left behind in a previous life that I’ve attempted to murder at least annually for eleven years. Root bound and pot bound and soil that has long forgotten the purpose of its toil. And you, Life, you insist on making sure the bloody thing continues sprouting.

Continues its photosynthesis.

Continues its irksome in your face will not forget cannot ever cast off that damn previous past living.