the poetic she
She finds refuge in stories that are not hers to tell,
She slips between the sheets of paper
like they are pale pink stretched over a mattress
That she will never be forced up from.
She dances across pages with kings she will never meet
And she whispers in Calibri
Into the ears of ladies maids
That lived and died in the confines of these pages.
She is a teller of tales that have been handed
To her like gifts from foreign lands
And at night, she curls up with only
Those she believes in to keep her warm.
Waltzers: £3 a go!
i wonder if i could drown myself in coffee,
would it be better or worse than the saltwater of the Mediterranean?
i think of how long it would take to find my body,
bodies float better in salt, don’t they?
salt and vinegar on thick cut chips from the shop at the end of the street,
could i dehydrate myself with salty, salty chips instead?
dehydration is a painful way to die though,
it fights your every bodily instinct; do i even have the willpower?
willpower is entirely subconscious so it’s hard to measure,
it doesn’t come in feet or kilograms or newtons, but shouldn’t it?
why aren’t feet measured to the actual average size of a foot?
human logic doesn’t make much sense really, right?
why don’t brains have an off switch?
A Starbucks cup won’t kill us all.
It’s so dark in here
But I can’t turn the light on
without setting the world to burn
so I sit here in the shadows and wait for some reprieve
from this modern day air raid.
Hoping a polar bear survives
because I sure as hell don’t expect to,
but then neither does he:
watching his home fall out from under him
because imbeciles with Stella cans and string-vests
couldn’t get warm at Christmas.
I stare at the dusted lightbulb,
would remembering a bag for life have changed anything?