Again
I went and fucked it up again, I don’t know how it happened. I went and fucked it up again and now my bed is cold and barren
My face is pissing blood from the open wound in my face, the wound is a central feature now– it’s taking my nose’s place
I tried to send a list of all the things I would miss but instead the spiteful little bitch in me started to writhe, creak awake and twist. She stole my phone, my feather quill and chalk and instead she made me write nasty things that would make you sick, make you balk.
I like it in the safety of my dusty little well, it’s safe down here. It almost never smells. Down here I know the floor I know the ceilings too, I recognise the walls and the soft furnishing are all my making too.
They are made of little wishes, old and young and new. All the little wishes that I think may have brought me you.
(2015)
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