Maybe if people had learnt
to let me come and play,
I wouldn’t be sat here,
playing with the chemicals in my brain,
in overgrown grudges
and hand me down trauma,

a murder on the playground,
a dozen years in the making.

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I fear once again,
my bitten tongue has cast me out
amongst the swarm, as wasps
land on my lips:
a mistaken stagnant flower,
that does not flutter
in objection, to what strikes
fear & discomfort,
into my heart.

& thus, I lay here lifeless,
on the pollen grass,
a murder most foul,
committed,
by the silence of my despair.

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The postman came this morning,
the rattle of his letters falling through the door,
passing as my only real engagement with the world,
as I hollow out the envelope,
and scan the contents in eager anticipation,
hopeless in my pursuit, in this endless waiting game
for 10am’s rattle and clank,
to clutch in my purpling hands,
an eviction notice for the trepidations in my head.

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