I won’t be found on Broomfield Road,
racing through the car park bay.
Nor pacing over distant hills,
my Darling, I’m a world away.

Though onlookers count her present,
blind of what’s inside,
something in your beady mind
bore witness to a change in mine.

You see straight through my translucent skin,
stretched on its chiselled frame;
a window through which tendons, tense,
plea to ping ’til the pain’s gone lame.

Nay, I know you think her scraping at the sea.
Tethered and unable to free
from sooty dogs she cannot heed.

But here, take your hand
and place it on my chest.
Feel her rattle at the cage
and fight against arrest.

That rebel when she surfaces
swells feisty on the tide –
not some good girl father wanted
– I know it’s her you want, not I.

Mostly asleep though, Yes,
And subdued,
Well, sometimes,
but

come now, don’t you see?
There’s no need to dread the sight.
For at times we roam in daylight,
cherishing life at every bite.

Why?
Why indeed!
Hard to tell when the cogs grind slow.
The seeds of temptation lured her there.
Who set the trap, I do not know.

But if I confide in you my slumber, I confide in you my sin.
That’s what you do, isn’t it?
Tell your next of kin.

Of Sundays shading over,
thieved of their former haze.
Tearing at the glorious blunder
where the Night endures the Day.

And I feel her growing weary
and I fear she is afraid
of growing apart so suddenly,
making a mess of the plans we made.

And I tell you I too tremble,
losing sight of her each day,
but when all you know
is skin and bone
what’s to stop you running her away?

Cut her off.
I’ll grow tame;
shun the shudder
shun the shame.

Cut her off
and I’ll be sane;
stem the sugar
stem the pain.

But cut her off
and what do I say?
Starved of talent,
starved of anything to display.

Tears can be forgiven.
Tears can turn to gold.
Though ruptures, I am told,
can quell feuds centuries old…

Maybe I’ll just murder her.
Maybe I’ll go with her.
Maybe we’re already dead;
imploded by a stick of butter

by Hannah Micuta