I wrote this to get out my frustration after receiving my fifth publishing profession job rejection, none of which I was even successful in procuring an interview for.
I keep telling myself
that there’s no rush,
there’s still time –
that good things come
(and they will come)
to those who wait.
And keep on waiting,
when their cheeks
are stained with salt
and buffed by paper towels.
I’m low-key terrified of the future. I’m terrified that I’m standing still, caught in an immovable current, whilst friends and peers move in new directions and face new challenges, experience new things.
To think of you,
but to not be consumed;
to watch to feel to hear
the flames and the smouldering embers,
but only feel the lick of their (your) lips,
but none of the danger,
none of the burns of flamed fingers grasped
too tightly so that I can’t tell –
who’s doing this to me?
The smoke, or your arms-
who suffocates me more, smothers-
You burn quietly in the background.