Its a personal issue

My particular brand of existential fear

Smells like a dead fish wrapped around my neck.

You can tell without even looking at me,

the stench makes eyes water for miles.

My pungent loneliness has people keeping a distance.

Rotten eggs, rotten hopes, rotting dreams.

The fear of dying alone is a niche branch of existentialism.

Not everyone is haunted by the bare stink of a polluted ocean

full of half possibilities, and almost loves.

My personalised nightmares

wear Chanel no. 0

And linger in my bedroom

hours after I’m done dreaming.

My broken tape recorder

plays “hand in unlovable hand” over and over,

except its my hand in mine

but the fingers don’t form a romantic woven blanket of security.

The bent out of shape boney fingers

form a comfortable cage

for my lone heart to beat in.

And through these bars

you can smell the smoke

before you see the fire.

You can feel the heat,

before you come too close.

You can hear the siren,

before you burn.