The First Appointment

An electronic star-studded living room smiles
Half-hidden behind someone else's rooftops,
The bald winter-white sun is too radiant today,
The city stripped and bitter-cold, my boots crunched
Gritty puddles, red Devon dirt speckling
Magenta fishnets, on the way.

In Velia's room, bleached Monets and crayon
Drawings cling to walls, the scattered toys
Make me feel that all of us off-centre
Are like children, only wanting love
And scarred, perhaps, by too many small parts.
I pick at painted nails, reduced. My mother leaves.

In this anonymous office, inside an old vine-ridden
Building, my dark-lined eyes are glazed and glitter
Deepest blue and desperate, like eyes
About to die. I gaze out of the window at this
Unknown part of my home town and talk
And spill, the tears stir in my stomach.

I clutch the little card, next week I'll
Avert my eyes through glass again and
Vent my mind, say what lies underneath my heart,
Describe what is my world, my way, and the
Frustration. I feel that I am paper. Limp, relieved
And drained, waiting for clarity.

This is the beginning of the end of how I
Feel, and I betray the walls the tiny waiting
Goddess of insanity told me to build, but
Being here confirms it for her, that I have
Bled and hungered for some fantasy; that
I am too many small parts.