I didn't realise this week would feel like a bowling alley. Where I'm the ten pins that keep getting battered and throttled by an imaginary ball.
Waiting for a text that's never going to come; waiting to be treated well; rushing to your phone; hoping it's him and then letting out a GROAN when it's just the family WhatsApp group.
Feeling swallowed my work; clawing your way through its belly like you're Pinocchio and the big whale. Burnt out and bulldozed.
When you like someone a lot and it's not reciprocated. Doing battle, shaving my legs, date-ready and then - boom - cancelled.
Loneliness and playing the game. What if I want out?
There's something to be said for sitting on rattan chairs and looking up at a tie-dyed sky. The same inky blue I saw in a dress earlier, the one I added to basket but never bought.
You used to make me mad with love, drunk on lust. And now you're sliding into my DMs, like nothing ever happened. This is a poem about realising you don't give a shit about the person who previously had a hold on you.
Boredom creeps... and the dirt-speckled screen is no company. Lockdown life is taking its toll.
Why don't you loosen the reins?
A gentle tug to prompt purpley, sunburnt, sooty shackles to the ground.
Why don't you lower the bar?
Before it slices your head clean off.
Social media is awash with colour and rage. Opening the app releases a tangle of feisty, hashtag-stuffed webs. Everybody's mouths are wide like venus fly traps, everybody's tongues are wagging more than usual.