an addiction;

Re-roll –

one refresh, it won’t

cost. Has it really?

Been twelve hours?

Wasted.

In front of a screen.

Just one refresh more-

Just one I swore

Wake up – next morning:

Un-refreshed.


tiny poem I wrote when refreshing games of Battlegrounds last night instead of going to sleep x

Inertia;

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 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.

a fire burning;

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-
neither.

You burn quietly in the background.
Contained.
Yearning.

You;

My face- my eyes, my mouth

light up in the same way

that my phone does, when I see

your name, your icon, your words.

 

I’m giddy.

High from the rush from the blush

from the tingling of my blood as my heart

no longer still, no longer static

tap tap taps away at my chest

like a woodpecker, like a rasp on the front door-

like a dancer in tiny shiny shoes who taps along to the melody in her head

 

I’m giddy.

But I’m also exhausted.

I’m exhausted from the breathlessness from the ache

in my chest in my lungs, the lump

in my throat that makes it so hard to swallow

whenever I see you, hear you, feel you.