Why I Can’t Listen to Sad Pop Songs Anymore

Rain pours down like catharsis.

She listens to Shawn Mendes,

bedroom door shut, floor a litter 

of Kens, lipbalms and post-its, 

striking tragic little poses

in the mirror as she mouths

or emotes, the kids now say, 

fingers making feathered hearts,

whilst he sings of needing kisses

where it hurts, of needing stitches,

whilst I’m hanging up the laundry 

in the spare room, on the dryer -

every day it needs redoing –

hanging black sails of a dark wash

and I feel like going under.

In The Odyssey, the crew 

watch the rain speckle the deck,

but the sirens’ powerballads

about wanting something back

are muted by the wax,

whilst, lashed to the mast,

only Odysseus can hear them 

cheep the song ‘Selfpity’ 

that goes shoo-be-doo… poor me…

heartbreak-ache-make-me-good.

Lalala, I will not listen.

I can’t have again or more,

such music’s an enchantment

sung to stop me getting home,

when I am here.  

Clare Pollard