izzy

my tongue a rusted doornail
catching your coat, pulling the wool
I find echoes of you on the internet
to sing me to sleep in the dark

my perfectly organised dresser in disarray
had to pretend this is a boy’s room for the house inspection
I keep everything important safe under my bed
I sleep alone and my doona is a palace or fortress

people having sex in every room in the house,
even the kitchen, everywhere except my room
I want to hold your hand at the movies and cry
and pretend that this is real life

I spend a lot of time with the big screen
not a replacement for you, but a testament
walking home, my arms hang limp and heavy
lemon pulp on my hands, the kitchen is cold

*

sarah

we are better than this
we are better than this
for the love of god
please let us be better than this

*