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


Penny Fearn



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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