I can’t sit still
on the bus today.
I’m looking down and
from side to side.
I make circle around my left thigh with my hands
like I’m trying to tie a rope around it:
a portable measuring tape.
I tighten the noose. I try not to
groan. I dig my nails
right in. I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.
I loosen my grip and
put my feet up on the chair in front of me
and check my knees are looking sufficiently
knobbly today. I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.
The sweaty, red-faced punter
who got on at Busby and sat down next to me
smells like all the things I hate about Glasgow:
cheap ***** stale cigars and
a sausage supper. Greasy chips drowning in vinegar, choking
on salt.
In the space between us
he shoves his rucksack.
When I feel it against my leg I
flinch. Another sensation connecting me to
this world.
I slide to the right, apologising to Mr. Greasy Chips like
I’ve done something terribly wrong and I
just don’t want to feel—
I don’t want to feel the fabric touching my body.
I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.
If I were smaller, just a bit smaller
there would be enough room
for his ******* bag.
I can’t sit still
on the bus today.
I’m coughing because of the stale cigar smoke and
some guy’s cheap aftershave
and I’m wondering why
I
take up
so
much space.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 12:04 PM UTC
I can’t sit still
on the bus today.
I’m looking down and
from side to side.
I make circle around my left thigh with my hands
like I’m trying to tie a rope around it:
a portable measuring tape.
I tighten the noose. I try not to
groan. I dig my nails
right in. I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.
I loosen my grip and
put my feet up on the chair in front of me
and check my knees are looking sufficiently
knobbly today. I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.
The sweaty, red-faced punter
who got on at Busby and sat down next to me
smells like all the things I hate about Glasgow:
cheap ***** stale cigars and
a sausage supper. Greasy chips drowning in vinegar, choking
on salt.
In the space between us
he shoves his rucksack.
When I feel it against my leg I
flinch. Another sensation connecting me to
this world.
I slide to the right, apologising to Mr. Greasy Chips like
I’ve done something terribly wrong and I
just don’t want to feel—
I don’t want to feel the fabric touching my body.
I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.
If I were smaller, just a bit smaller
there would be enough room
for his ******* bag.
I can’t sit still
on the bus today.
I’m coughing because of the stale cigar smoke and
some guy’s cheap aftershave
and I’m wondering why
I
take up
so
much space.
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