Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...

erbacce-press

Penny Fearn

Still

If I wore it as a ribbon on my coat lapel,
you would see
and whisper the mouldy facts to someone you trusted.

You would show me your torture masque while
I would be a story at your coffee-table.

If you knew,
you’d look at my dirty subtitles with your eyes wide –
I’d allow shame to pinch the volume of my voice –
and you’d think I was wronged or brave or ugly,
and it wouldn’t change a thing.

I’ve scorched my summers
and filed away my joy
to a charcoal cobweb,
blown inside out,
so tears drip down my neck
and metal gets caught in my hair.

Now there is only bone and disappointment.

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