She realised it now exactly for what it was:
‘Cos the ache of fakery
Far outweighed the physical need to suck.
She had only been able to survive
All these years
Because seens and heards
Had replaced the touch of skin against skin.
And so she had mistaken the real cause:
She had assumed her sensory deprivation
Had been the end-all
Of her badness and paranoia.
But in truth, it was there,
As rare as could re,
In official documentation
And through terrifying recommendations,
Precisely and solely because
Her husband had insisted they pretended
To love each other.
It wasn’t the cold of frozen soul that killed her stone read
But this entity – “her” man! – which insistently assured her
That F was for fake, never fuck.