Slice of Costco cake for my
fourteen-year-old self, the
CAMHS kid that he was.
Now don’t forget what
the good book says:
frantic in his efforts
to be held in a
single bed.
Cigarette for the little old me
in the analyst’s chair at 17.
DSM evangelist, it’s folded
on her shoulder as I tremor like
a leper on a leather sofa.
Cognitive-behavioural
therapy, you’ll never be a
friend to anyone like me.
Clicking on the Nespresso for
the brambled boy-self, who
clawed his way back here
from Hell. Black coffee
was a friend for counting
calories, as I broke the
yolk, the already
scrambled self.
Then I pulled myself in for a
mighty ride through the lives
of boys in just one size. The
yule log was untouched like
the boy on Christmas Day:
holding his knees
he’s the only
thing gay.
He’s my clinical comrade,
among other clients in
that barrel of uneaten
crackers. He’s a sliver
of a boy, a squiggle in
the mirror, and with
every day he’s only
growing smaller.
So now I’m hugging myself in
my West End flat, cradling
him like a baby as he’s
wasting away. Oh, the
boy-self brave, the
boy-self gay, the
boy-self the only
thing I have today.