A Cold Turkey Is Still A Bird

A cold turkey is still a bird

I found her like a needle in a playground

It wasn’t long before I found myself,

wrapped around her little finger,

smothering my foresight,

a pillow to my head as,

she sweetly whispered goodnight,

each night

down a mobile phone,,

melting my eardrums,

and frying my brain.

Viewing her lying and scheming,

through rose tinted spectacles,

like Specsavers,

selling specs,

to spectators,

in order to watch,

Specsavers ,

advertisments,

all day and evening.

My friends said,

“you're a fool,”

I said,

“you don't know her,”

they said,

“she's stringing you along,”

I said ,

“you don't know her,”

they said,

“don't come running to us when it all goes wrong,”

I said,

“I'm in it for the long run,

and the only strings here,

belong to a symphony,

playing my favourite song,

so you run along,

in fact,

jog on,

and don't come back..”

Exploiting my weakness must have been easy.

A sitting duck,

stranded at the back of the pack ,

starved of attention.

Struggling to swim in a lake of insecurity,

where identity,

is forged early,

and if not gained,

one can float,

to obscurity,

hidden in the shadows of stronger swimmers,

never having tasted,

the sweet offerings,

from another's hand.

She was the first to throw bread.

The excitement,

created the illusion,

I was no longer paddling,

but flying,

if only internally.

Unleashing feelings I thought belonged only in Hollywood,

and Holyoaks,

lumps in my throat,

and flies in my belly,

eveytime she phoned

Thing is,

she weren’t even that nice.

The benefits of companionship,

and endless promises,

had clouded my head.

I should have known she was a bit dense,

when she said,

“Why don't you ever call me babe”?

It was her reassurances,

that validated my existence,

which until then,

felt minimal,

to say the least.

It was this dependency,

on aligning my own self esteem,

on her very being,

which saw her prey,

on my need,

for her,

as she seemed to take pleasure,

playing ker-plunk,

with my soul,

measuring,

the lengths I'd be prepared to go,

anytime,

she threatened to end it all.

I think she enjoyed my consistence.

Knowing that,

whatever the weather,

I'd be over the moon,

to receive a text or a call,

It was like a cartoon rabbit,

with a habit for carrots,

she could dangle an orange stick in front of my eyes,

and I'd be desperate to grab it,

and she knew it.

I was addicted.

Her voice was like self harming by proxy.

The more she kept me hanging,

the harder I clung,

until I went clean,

and concentrated on me,

removing the dependency,

for living through a third party,

for the time being,

at least.

The ability,

to review hindsight,

and laugh,

is a gift,

worth more than Gold,

and should be treasured,

When I told her we were finished,

her final text read,

“if dats ow u feel den dats ow u feel”.

Enough said.

What was I thinking?