The warmth and earthy scent of the forest floor is gone and instead,
It's ashtrays and sore eye lids I don't
Know how to dislodge the small, grey stone in my throat sometimes
The stone chokes me I wish
I could peel back my skin like a spring onion,
And reveal and fresh new me,
As if the broken, beige bit never existed I love
The sound of washing machines going round and round,
And round and round and round and round I think
About the tree trunks and buttercups and melted ice creams and as the air warms like this I feel sick and
Foolish,
And I can't look at things through my eyes I want
You to be happy and I'll try
And be like a spring onion,
All shiny, and green and white.