I am afraid I have wound up encumbered,

eating spaghetti in my lingerie, like an obese toddler

whose fat rolls, like a Chow Chow’s, spill out of the straps

of the baby seat in her mother’s four-wheel drive.

I visit you in the lobby, a public humiliation ritual

for women with bad taste. You are in a grey hoodie,

haemorrhaging sweat to the sound of indoor water fountains.

Sex with you is like apologetic WWE, with a referee blowing the whistle

each time you ask me if something feels okay. I tell you that I want love

to feel like cartoon birds and stars spinning around our heads.

I will break character in the bathtub, where I will reveal my real face,

crying like a crying machine, as you feed me champagne through a curly straw

like I’m your co-dependent guinea pig. Now, fetch me a towel,

before I grow old in here and die.