Girlhood was the homes we made
In the bushes at the bottom of the playground,
where the branches reached out from tangled
masses like welcome, open hands.
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I don’t know if i can, y’know, do this
I can’t pray that we are star-crossed anymore,
I think we’re just unlucky.
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letting go
like the wind eases off the leaves.
letting go
like the waves ease off the shore.
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it’s a constricted sensation deep within my chest
I doubt my ability to name it as it settles —
living and breathing and growing
sickening each lung in turn until oxygen feels liquid and I choke.
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The mud is holy. The house is haunted. The stinging nettle loves the blackberry, as much as any plant can and my therapist says I must ask my parents for the money that is owed me.
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I am out with lanterns looking for myself
amongst thorns, leaves and old bean bags that rot out
behind the shed – look there! My childhood watches
me on my hands and knees, scrounging and bleeding.
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My heart has started missing beats
I think the Thing is taking them
from where it mouths the muscle
with its rigid,
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