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

in silence.


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.