Choose your own adventure

Carson Wolfe

One 

Choose Your Own Adventure

You wake in a decade you are too young to know, this is the reality of dating a guy ten years older than you, the wallflower of an era never lived through. You are a sad millennial and reminded of this each time he warps your apartment into the Hacienda, playing music you never danced to, because you were busy playing dress-up in your mother’s shoes, preparing to fill them with boyfriends that throw your heirloom ornaments at the wall. The DVD shelf is loaded with classic gangster movies, and you can now pick Ray Liotta out of a lineup, but you can’t pick up the phone when your friends call. The fridge is crayoned with art from the previous child he is only allowed supervised contact with, but this is none of your business. The sofa bought on tick is stained with a domestic turned 999. It faces an empty rectangle of dust where the TV once distracted your daughter, before he stole it. On the table of missed meals, a bouquet of used alcohol wipes lay scattered like white roses on a grave. Your lip is after-dentist fat. Mauled from the inside like fingernails on a girl buried alive. You taste black iron on your tongue, investigate in the bathroom mirror, find his name tattooed backwards in your mouth. Each nostril is blocked with begging the dealer to return at 4am. Your throat is closing now too. You claw at yourself, a rat, going for your own neck. What do you do next?

A.)   Recycle the hoard of red flags into bunting, decorate the place, everything appears normal. Scroll to poem number three.

B.)   Leave? Ha. Go back to the beginning of poem number one, repeat for at least eight months.

C.)   Leave? Fine. Sell the car you can’t afford to fix. Head to the airport with a one way ticket and only £500 to your name. When the passport agent asks how much money you are travelling with, lie like the expert you have become. Scroll to poem number two. 

Two 

In-Flight Announcement 

Welcome onboard this service from a fixed address
to elective homelessness. On behalf of the crew,
I ask that you do not approach our survival
briefing with the attitude of

     it will never happen to me. 

When the captain turns, warning signals
may alert you to fasten in for turbulence.
Signals often appear red, behind a compliment,

or not at all. In the event of a break-in, stay calm
and assume the mama-bear position 
(grab the sturdiest wooden toy, brace for impact). 

Should the cabin experience sudden panic, 
a blood knuckled hand will drop down from above. 
Place it over your mouth and nose to smother a scream,

pull the thumb to release the security deposit to a fist
shaped hole in the wall. If you are traveling with children, 
I’m sorry.

When evacuating, follow the hysteria of alarms
installed by child services that triggered
each time your daughter placed palms to pane. 

Exits are not clearly marked. Exits are lit
with family photos. Exits lead to a hallway 
where no neighbours come to assist.

If you haven’t already, stow away your left arm,
or think of a new story when passengers ask, 
who tattooed your sleeve? 

Set electronic devices to untraceable mode.
Whilst waiting for take-off, fold the police report
into a paper plane, propel into the overhead bin.

The temperature at our destination is hot enough
to kill any blame still leeching on skin.
If you forgot to pack sunscreen, we offer a nontoxic 

solution that blocks all harmful light – including gaslight.
For your safety, we have replaced all life-vests
with celibacy rings disguised as mosquito repellent.

Thank you for choosing to fill a bag not shaped
like your body. We wish you safe passage, 
with a tag tied to your luggage, sweetie,

     not your big toe. 

Three

They’ll say, he was a quiet boy, very odd.

My boyfriend skins a rabbit.

His amateur knife saws halfway
through the flank before turning red
in the face and throwing it
in the neighbour’s wheelie bin.

This does not surprise me,

he always does half a job. Ties intricate knots
in the garbage bag, but never takes it out.
Unrolls the notes, but leaves an outline of chalk
on my daughter’s princess mirror.

My boyfriend skins a rabbit

but it’s only a hobby, a Ray Mears copycat
– the bushcraft loner, not the other show-off
who keeps drinking his own piss
for a hydrated camera crew.

My boyfriend’s weapon collection 

is growing with my will for him to stop
bringing home gifts that stain my doorstep pink.
My boyfriend likes to think himself a modern day
Thoreau, spends a lot of time alone in the woods.

My boyfriend trails a scent of Dahmer’s childhood.

When my daughter asks for a kitten,
I tell her I have allergies. When he isn’t looking,
I check lampposts for missing posters.
I check his pockets for bones.

When my boyfriend sneaks out at night,

he whittles my sense of self with the precision
of a survivalist, and I’m certain he would be first
in the apocalypse to eat the friend
who is slowest to run.

My boyfriend brings home a gun,

says it’s for hunting, and I don’t ask why he keeps
putting it in my hands, why he crowds me like a blonde
with a snooker queue and no clue how to aim.
Why he focuses my shot on the two lovebirds
outside my window. Why I behave as if the silencer
is screwed into my own jaw. I just shoot feathers
from the branch with one pull of the trigger.
And he picks me up from behind, celebrates,
as if I potted the black in the darkest corner of his heart,
as if this is the proudest, he has ever been.

Carson Wolfe is a Mancunian poet exploring patriarchal violence & queer family making. They are an Ergon Theatre contest winner and a recipient of the Aurora Poetry Prize. Their work has appeared with Button, Hobart, Fourteen Poems, and is forthcoming on Reform Radio. They currently serve as a teaching assistant to Megan Falley on her renowned workshop Poems That Don't Suck. You can find them complaining about their kids on Instagram @vincentvanbutch.