Fending off the Many-Limbed Imps of Doubt

The days that lack
squeezing, contact with hands
that have drawn robot plating
in pastel on your breasts;
with the tongue
that cajoled you into posing
in nothing but said artwork
outside your own flat; the hair
that falls in your face
like a half-hearted gag
when they're on top,
feeling so much like the tassel
on a heavy drape;
these are the days that fertilise monsters,
grown like seeds
from a joke Christmas gift [your sister
thinks you need some friends].
The kind of gargoyles
that niggle, pretending to play
like kittens, with your own hair,
until a bite hits home
and you slap them away,
the ectoplasm on your palm
resisting soap, Swarfega,
pumice stone.