the peach

I don’t want to be anyone’s wife.
The idea tastes stale.
I don’t want a briefcase on a dining room table.
I’d let the fruit bowl grow mouldy
and bite into a dying peach.
Show you the paling gooey insides
and watch as you forget how to love.
 
I want to fuck at 3pm.
Moan through the school run,
with liquored lips lapped in your kiss,
your fingertips nailed to my hips.
And a sigh so bright it blinds the sun.
 
I want to grow old - 
no older than 23 -
when the mischief of dabbling into adulthood is both exciting
and a world away dream.
The image of house keys,
shrouded by peach iced tea
growing on cherry trees,
are not a paperweight in your pocket.
But something to attach flowers to
 and lose in high school PE.
 
I want to be high at your funeral
and show your brother our sex tape.
Watch his mouth grow agape
 and count his clinically whitened teeth.
I don’t want kids.
I am one.