Council house dilapidated and brittle as the bones That inhabited it, invalid mother bedridden,drugdazed With a prescription-based carnival skull and sore lungs sustained from years of cigarettes and TB.
In the night there was machine gun coughter, foxes howling frost -if you looked outside you could see them stringing silver from their fangs on the street below- And I went downstairs to fix her some tea because for the first time in years she asked me
And the storm outside lifted the window to the edges of it's brims
And I felt a stinging ping as an ache Spread the crevice of my spine
And I thought 'is this it? is this the life I've instore?' and as it turns out,it was it.
It is it.
I remember once lying on that cold kitchen floor after getting home from school worried about something or another, biting my nails and dreaming a hundred million Futures on the ceiling and wondering how they could ever