Loaf

Forty years worth of crust
and the mould’s setting in
green.

I’m green with sick
when you breathe
your winey breath at me.
Say I’m nasty, fat arsed,
a waste of space.
That wasn’t the case when I lifted you
after too many pills.
They pumped your stomach, you’re new
and I’m greying
as I tell the kids
you didn’t want to live.

Well I do, well I did
till your mould set in.
I’ve sliced myself too thin
handed pieces around.
Your feet are on the ground now.

Now all that’s left of me, my loaf
is crumbs. Feed me to the birds.