Unwilling

She bound her wrists using the discards    
from shards of sugar snap peas,    
and linked them,    
in the cupboard under the stairs,    
above her head,      
led there by ghosts that walk through walls.      
     
She said that she was British    
and it didn't matter at all,    
as long as there were photographs, as long as she was hollowed,    
and as long as she could bawl freely      
until you came home.      
     
She said that she couldn't bare it,    
she said the words that were aired in the corridors      
of polite conversation - blowing in her ears, she needed to hear again,    
and feared she'd replay, over and over as fuel    
in the back of a P4 Rover while you removed her clothes    
and licked the whole of her breast bones and studied her hair follicles with your fingertips    
until such time demanded you pulled her backwards    
with a love and an urgency worthy of screaming    
where in poured light and your eyes held hers, haunting them    
where you floored her there    
with your whole weight    
with your mouth and your words    
and your worst    
such things she couldn't give in to    
until you said it    
aloud    
and that sound would resonate deep under her ribcage    
until there was nothing left but holding you,    
quivering,    
borders and settling and sensibilities apart    
     
but time ticks, and you're not there    
and you don't know or you won't share, she pulls away the decomposing string    
with her teeth and promises, that because she's British,    
she'll embrace the word cynicism      
all over her body    
so euphoria of losing oneself in a daydream doesn't      
stream it's way into her wonderful,    
full and foolish    
soul.