by Eve Colyer
CN: violent imagery
Intellectually, I know, I think, that my body is in a bed
And not a beach, bloodied. My limbs which thrash and run and sprint
And are bound and breaking.
They are under a warm duvet, merely shaking. The voice screaming from
My stranger’s throat is still curled up inside my chest. I know this.
But I see a friend, a cousin and a boy breaking their ribs, and calmly,
To embrace and lace the ossuary whiteness into their heart. I’ll admit it,
The gossamer web of my intellectual reality turns to net and winds around me,
I admit it. And a voice is saying to me, from a crackling phone line
This too shall end – but how do I know when cousin’s gore drips out of her fairy mouth
And drops, pearly, onto yet golden sand, and friend is wiping her eyes of her roadside
Muck to whimper, what, what did you do, turning to a shout, what
Did – you – do. The boy, it’s his voice, and this too shall end, he tells me soft,
But his mouth is liar to his words and his hands are clutching.
So although I think, and I know, my body is in a bed – white, unblemished,
My mind is on a beach and my heart is breaking.
Header image by Emma Veares
Blueprint 