We flew into Tottenham Hale,
and I wanted to crash.
I wanted to crash.
I wanted to see my mind,
a beautiful mind,
(or so I’m told),
displayed against the door of the underground train,
because I need you,
and I want you,
and I have poured my entire soul into you,
but your cruel eyes,
only see me,
when I am undressed,
when I am adorably corruptible,
when I am beneath you.
We didn’t crash.
The carriages rattled,
with the sheer volume of our tension,
but you held my hand,
and you smiled,
and I wondered,
if love was always like this.
The train did not crash,
but it did break down,
stuttering to a stop,
my hand cut free,
from the absurdly perfect scene,
we had been putting on for the public.
Yours went to work,
on finding out what the fuck was going on,
but mine stayed in place,
obedient,
afraid,
unable to think for herself anymore,
and yet again,
I wished we would crash,
just for a moment,
so I would be dead,
so I would escape,
so I would be remembered as someone who could think,
if she was free.
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