slots symposiums in envelopes
that she never sends.
has fingers that shiver with reconnaissance
but uses them to play the violin instead.
make drunken contact, sharing
evaporated kisses and a temporary
osmosis of the soul.
swimming in the lacuna
of disillusioned love
feels more like drowning than release.
emerge from the dream
covered in crushed
stumbles home and rubs
solipsism on her lips, before sleeping
without her teddy bear.
never forgets how her breasts smelt
so much like fresh onions wrapped in toilet paper.
I submitted this to a literary magazine but it wasn’t accepted, bummer. On the bright side, it does feel like a pressure has been released from me. Expectation and excitement are weighty things and can become a burden if they aren’t carried away with the giddy lightness of success but I’m genuinely happy that at least it means I can share it with you guys here, now.
Full disclosure, my ego is a little bruised but mum always told me the bruised fruits were the sweetest (I don’t know if that was just to get me to eat them before they went bad) but that’s sort of comforting to remember.
Here’s to not being the best but not giving up, writing until the very last drop of ink dries up, even if it can at times look like just a muddle of darkness. ❤