27 and 11 twelfs by Jennifer Stephenson

I look tired and I feel sad,
my boyfriend’s an alcoholic, I drink the leftover wine so he can’t
it matters not, by his 4th visit to the shop the mirage is
smashed. I angle my face away from the smell,
I’m 27 and nesting, readying my womb,
that by some miracle a bout of radiotherapy did not destroy!
for what? I’m nowhere near ready.
after it fell out my hair grew back curly,
the rest of me’s still the same, and I’m still making the same
mistakes. If a train’s destination is stable it matters not
how pretty you make the carriage.
there’s more honour in lying there and letting the paint flake,
take me! throw me off the edge! we’re heading towards the edge of a cliff,
did nobody tell you! there’s no more track. this is it.
this is it.

Leave a Reply