Imagine you’re barefoot, and the floor is covered in CDs in their cases that you’ve collected ever since your heart broke last. Bossanova, Pink Robots, the Bridget Jones soundtrack;
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The clock on the wall is broken. It chokes backwards, its voice cracking. He sits in the armchair. I don’t know where I am.
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This poem is about how I learnt to swallow. How I forced my throat to break the confines of science. How I raised my tired middle finger to biology and morphed into a hybrid of myself.
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