I didn’t think it was possible to ****
a cactus, but I have.
Cactus corpse lies on the
drooping shelf
the spikes, once full of stabs and stings,
now limp and lifeless
(but scars on my fingers
prove it did cut me)
even the lamp misses the cactus’ prickly
presence, refusing to raise its head
rusty radiator moans loudly,
mourning the loss
I don’t think I’ll ever keep a plant again.
disappointment of the death
has left a longer-lasting mark than
scars on my fingers and
I can't bring myself to move
its corpse from the lonely old shelf

I feel it in my stomach first -
hollow pain that prods to be noticed

there’s a dizziness, sudden need to
orientate myself

that ominous stain
glares

I have a boiled egg for breakfast
shatter the shell, examine the yolk

next, nausea
white bites churn

spat out egg is uglier than
disintegrated egg planted in my pants

I shove my fist down my throat to stop butterflies spilling out,
spluttering under sticky toffee pudding sky

lines and lines of grass wave hairy heads, panicked to be plucked in
late May air - bare and dry, naked as paper.

We drink fizz to soften silence, look down at birds chasing their shadows.
Ice on pinking thighs

I lick my lips to hide frantic flapping wings,
clouds gather as marshmallows, bodies of grass rise to look.

tongue tickled by flutters, I drink more to drown the butterflies.
Let them digest into crawling caterpillar crumbs in my stomach’s pit