The week

I didn't have sex

I ate shrimp.

I

wanted to so

badly across the bed, no ocean

that's just an indication of how things were that week

weak isn't the right word

because I was ripping things apart to touch

the insides

back to the prawns,

that week I ate a lot with my hands

dug my now slightly grown nails into the hard

rucksack of orange outer casing

and splitting its back open until fingertips touched

the inner spoils of pinked shrimp flesh

the bursting gush of saltwater innards

came over my fingers pressing

my plump mouth sucking and licking over

the rump of thick white meat

bent over in that familiar curl

I pulled off those legs and jackets

round the body in one go like peeling a whole apple

with your grandmother's sharp paring knife

or removing a shirt over shoulders in one quick

flick or a slide, even

gliding off naked shoulders

I devoured half a pound of prawns

sucking at the severed heads

that feverish sucking

succulence dripping

into my knuckles and coating me with

wet

prawns bulging into the pot of white

mayonnaise I think I'm going to come

home soon.

Imogen Turner, London

Imogen Turner is a 29-year-old poet living in London. When she’s not working, Imogen can be found studying psychology part-time with the Open University or spending time with her gorgeous, gregarious family.

Imogen is grateful to poetry for allowing her to say the unmentionable under the guise of producing art. She is currently working on her first poetry collection, exploring themes of disassociation, female sexuality and the self.