The Story

I want to feel every word. Let it burn in the back of my throat.

Like the powder. The index card. The rolled up piece of ‘Hello Kitty’ notepaper.

It takes you there a little bit quicker.
And when you have no place to go quick is definitely better.

It all falls.

The smells.
Bubble baths and rotting pins.
Skipping ropes and ‘hundred-and thousands’.

My hair falls out as I sleep.
I find it in clumps on my pillow.
It’s just like losing you.
I collect it up. Throw it away. And another clump grows.

So many of you lost that way.
So many of you filling in the bald spots.

The blisters are popping and bleeding.
On my hands and legs.
I scratch at them and remember the girl. The tumour. The brillo pad.

Behind every story is another.

No one’s story quite belongs to them.

Waiting. Waiting.
For seven o’clock.
When I can fall.

When I can feel every word.