by Jo Fisher
I often think becoming one of two after so long would
cleave me in half
quite painfully.
I don’t know how to lie next to another any more.
How to share a double bed
a routine
a shower
dessert.
I mean, why would you want half
when you could relish the whole in spread-eagled bliss,
and the only eggshells that pierce your feet
are those you dropped
when you made brunch
for one
and ate all the avocado
without being judged
at your own leisure
last Sunday?
And yet.
I persist
in this supposed quest of self-destruction
to give up half of something dear
for discomfort
and stolen sheets
and cold feet
and chaos
and a whole new whole.
Jo is a writer, poet, editor, creator, and over-thinker based in Southampton, UK. She writes almost all day, every day, and has recently dipped her toe into performing poetry, slams and spoken word (and she likes the way it feels). Find her on twitter @joannefisher, and read more of her work at www.jofisherwrites.com.