A small girl in bare feet came running up,
the kind of girl who looks like she isn’t actually alive.
There was a horrible pause.
I jumped off the bike
careful to avoid the casual use of metaphor.
Now, I’m lying in bed with the lights off
like a thing made of actual holes strung together:
a sulky eyesore without redemption,
a long random number into the keypad,
vodka out of a Sports Direct mug,
a small corner of rapture,
a chip pan fire in the kitchen:
relentless and inescapable.

© Carl Burkitt 2021