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(#2) Bright Blue Walls: Post-Confession Shivers

Oat milk hot chocolate
no cream, no faff �
just extra hot �
so it warms cold bones

it seems to be the norm now
Friday morning, I spill my guts
in a beige office in front of a woman
who�s boobs are too big for her bra

you can�t help but notice them �
but they bring a strange comfort.
It feels motherly some how �
as if her presence holds merit

and I talked about anxiety
how it�s fucked me up
how it�s still fucking me up
as if I�ve catastrophised living
before it�s even been called life.

The Coffee Corner is empty �
at this hour of day.
I look out across the room �
at polished leather chairs

the perfection of it unsettles me

and it speaks to me like nothing else
the way I brutally shine myself
thoroughly cleaning �
the filthy parts away �
nobody appreciating emptiness �
except me, fearing the next round �
of rain coats and muddy shoes
fucking up my precious space. �

I caught my septum piercing
in my dress this morning. �
I winced
when it started bleeding
provoked nerves producing tears
in the corners of half-asleep eyes

and in truth, I�m still there �

Wet. �

Throbbing �
and raw. �

It�s too early for therapy �
too early to sacrifice myself �
on memory�s bloody altar
eyes flecked with pain
drowning out the sun �
with endless English rain

monochrome
hopeless
a little in love