Wreckage/New Poem (Rough First Draft)
I’ve been sat for several weeks
in the wreckage of my past
several years, drinking nothing
but tea and avoiding colliding
with life champions on the internet.
Those who can go to sleep without
having to fight with the dark first.
You’ve constantly consoled me,
like you would console a hunter
after a day in the forest and nothing
for the shoulder, for the fire, for the table.
You come in, scoop me up like ice cream,
carry me down stairs to the kitchen.
You push the chair in so my stomach
just touches the table edge.
You feed me egg and soldiers
You hold me up to the light,
position me so I’m facing
the sun sideways on.
I whimper. The daylight
prickles the skin on my arms.
You lean in and kiss me
until you find the fracture.
I am no longer frantic
and awkward, but quiet and ok.