You know the stony mask that sucks at the shadows in murderers' eyes?
The other day I glanced in the mirror and I noticed:
It looks like mine.

The fond, nostalgic smile that spreads from your husband's face
Is also mine,
As is the pillow through which its firm, pulsating knowledge bores on lonely nights.

And so is that knowledge,
That at 5.45pm on Friday the 16th of April Tracy Darlington sucked him off
Behind the Year 10 lockers.

My ears are entirely my own.

You can put down that kitchen knife now, Mrs Cooke.
The other day I glanced through the window and I noticed:
It looks like mine.

There's no need to cry over spilt milk;
Not when that spilt milk is mine.
But I'll shoulder that burden for you, Mrs Cooke,
And you can do my time.