Disease
There’s a place I sit
in your heart, arse tucked
between the semi-lunar valve and aortic wall.
Every time you breathe,
move, think, I am crushed
into a V, my legs pushed towards my chest.
On your left lower
lid, there’s an eyelash that
hasn’t moved since birth. I grip myself onto it.
When you blink, the inertia
sickens me. When you cry,
I am forced through floods of saline,
crystals cut at my flesh.
I am wedged between
the crevices of your heels’ hard skin.
You hack at your nails, pick
at your feet and I thrust
out my arms.
Ian Walker is a poet and playwright based in Liverpool, a Creative Writing graduate from LJMU, an amateur entomologist, and avid collector of indoor plants. For work, he facilitates reading groups and events to promote mental health and wellbeing.