#terrors

and mr "spastic" finally settling down at THREE-FORTYFIVE in the gods forsaken morning!!!

scared of becoming

the next person you can’t stand

to be alone with.

scared of not knowing,

if that does become the case.

try to write out how i feel

and hit walls on walls on walls.

my chest rips into itself and

i stare at blank paper and i can’t see

how we can fix any of this if i can’t

spun sugar,

in bubblegum pink or

little boy blue,

hanging off sticks in the hands

of children at a funfair.

a small girl is clutching hers

oh-so-tightly, the saccharine cloud

bigger than her face,

determined to savour it,

convinced that the next bite she takes

won’t melt away to sweet nothingness

in her mouth.

next to her, there lies one discarded

in the dirt, and a boy using the stick

as a sword.

spun sugar, in sunset orange or

lavender lilac, fills the air,

and the sweetness is cloying.

it takes over, is all you can smell

or taste

or feel. it’s sticks to everything,

and the little girl and the little boy

leave finger marks on everything they touch

for days.

the prints ask “did you miss me?”