Maybe I struggle with strangers,
and walking past windows at night time
if its a particular shade of grey, leading into
mauve-tinged mist. And it’s a possibility that
I shout too often, brows weighted with annoyance,
not really listening to any response because I’ve already decided
my opinion is the only one worth consideration.
Well, to me. I sort of have
an irrational phobia of cheese. And
even though I avoid the devil mould as though
it were life or death,
I still have nightmares. And maybe I’ll
talk in my sleep, about political mountains
or snakes in my ears,
or push you over the edge for that thing you said.
And once or twice I’ll shut the bathroom door
and climb into the bath with my clothes on and no water,
only a cherry scented shark for company
and drink until I fall asleep.
Once or twice.

And so
I indulge in hidden and sacred moments,
the line the door frame cuts against the edge of the building,
sky creeping over, slowly darkening as the stars one by one
reveal themselves. Well done for waiting.
Here is a handful of blossom you have
hidden from yourself, pockets filled,
to spin under. Enjoy.
And although there are defence mechanisms
hidden in each alcove of my domesticity
I take great comfort in this place.
A palace, I rule this kingdom of
carefully spontaneous childhood.
There are biscuits under every piece of
furniture, and I don’t know how they got there.
And I don’t know how we got here,
but both make me smile
every time.

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