Toy-town.

A girl is broken. Clocks slide slowly forward.

Gouging out bruised life in chunks. Short days. Endless nights. On the wrong
time. On the wrong line. Crumbling like birthday cake. Lips wiped clean of
life.

Talk that talk. In a voice that is not your own. Murmur. Forgotten japes.

          Paranoia.
A noise outside. Mind hungry for a hand on my thigh. Touch of dumb self. Fat
chance of flesh. Fucked. Hand trembles.

Inside bleeds with impossibility and
the need for a cigarette.

Undress. Go to bed. Get on with it. If I could.
If I should. Glass of red would make the world right itself.

Weep. Toss and turn. Slice and dice the past
like an onion.

Stupid. It’s A Wonderful Life. Clarence the
angel. A bell rings.

Haunting every room. On the radio ‘Puppy love’.
Donny Osmond recasts the past. Hold it like a babe in arms.

Living room. Wallpaper. Rorschach. A still life.

Lobby. Shoe-tree for different feet. Telephone
on the table. Lips on the other line. Distant self. Different self.

Why bother?

Another thing. Don’t mouth the word - unwell.

Poor baby. Fuck off. That’s what I’d like to say. I’m good.

Hide behind the wintery dark glasses of my smile.

Wince. Pick at a scab. Water into wine. Brush my
hair in the mirror. Whisper but no one hears. Profiles changed.

Paler.

Get dressed. Pull on jeans. Pull them off. Put
dangly earrings on the purse of my ears. Beautiful.

Listen. Hear the roar of silence inside. If I
could. If I would. Rip out my throat like a lynx.

Dares. Hands a bracelet, feel the pulse. Finger hidden
scars.

Soft burr. My voice down the line, ‘yes I’m sure’.
 

Special scissors. Click. Click. Click. Cut my
hair.

Squeamish. Sense of sin. Phone off the latch.
Chain on the door.

Cut deep. Ribbon for valour on my skin. Grape upended
into the bathroom sink. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Familiar rhythm. Cut. Cut. Cut.

Laugh. New drama. My own best guest. Touching
and feeling, taking the accolades.

Face of a nun in the medical cabinet.

Burial. Lying on the bathmat. Blood of life. Vanishing
to zero.

Panic. Trying to get up. Breathing. Rising from
the grave. Lips white as smoke.

Door drifts away like a lone swan. Bad blood.

X marks the spot. Thumbs press home. Pearls on
the ground. Little gulls cry outside. Bones adrift in slow tide.

Epitaph. Sips of Earl Grey.

Dear heart, don’t depart.