Self-portrait

These are my failings: a wild smile
always leads my mind to the kiss
hiding behind it, and sometimes
to plot the shortest route there.

Did I say sometimes? I lie a bit, too.
Plus I tend to zone out
to small-talk and often wonder
where do they go, those wasted words
once they’re spoken?

I can’t warm to people,
despite how I try.
I’m lying again – I don’t try at all.
I’d much rather hide
with The Boss or Miss Del Rey,
alone in the dark
drinking vodka,

ignoring that night
in my fourteenth year
when my father got drunk,
made me drive his ute home –
the soft bump and loud bark,
the crimson accusation,
coagulating on his tyre
next morning.