I DISSOCIATE IN THE CHIPS AND PRETZELS AISLE OF OUR LOCAL SAINSBURYS

and wonder if I have been unbodied since birth,
if I could ever shake myself back into my skull
or if it’s a lost cause kinda deal,
 
if I could eat Kettle’s Salt and Vinegar till it corrodes
a hole in my squirming tongue and still not feel a thing;
poke my pinky tentatively through,
 
Doubting Thomas to my own troubled sinew.
Saint Peter raises an eyebrow at this metaphor
from over by the sour straws and I yell
 
Fuck you, you’re a fairy story
and can’t quite make myself believe it. 
 
When something was here and now isn’t, it tends to leave
a reminder of sorts (a 2000-year-old religion
or an empty crisp packet in the landfill, or bloodstains
 
in the bathtub, or the like) and maybe we’re only still here
because we’re scared of being even bigger when we’re gone.
Your friend texts you:
 
I didn’t ask to be born into this big world!!!!! and you think of your body,
rattling around in your soul like Doritos in an underfilled
packet and think: 
 
Fuck it, it doesn’t matter what I welcome into this mouth,      
the self-checkout camera will flatten it, anyway.