Misery’s the pig mate

My mum said I was like Misery today

She meant Annie, because the weather was bad and I folded.

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Diary

This is the first thing that comes to mind:

that time when an “important” someone said I wasn’t pretty in not so many words.

This is the second thing that comes to mind:

the things I write are, so often, a sapping showcase of my vulnerability.

This the the third thing that comes to mind:

my poor little dead bird in the soil.

This is the forth:

I cried so much over that dead bird, harder than I’ve cried in years, so hard that I hurt my throat, that my mother said she hasn’t heard me cry that hard since the first time my heart was broken when I was 18 and still a girl.

Waterway

Trickle, stream,

Over the stones

Wet the path you follow

As you hit your stride,

Sway side to side and cut your name.

 

Rush river,

To the sea,

Whirl the stones around

As you carve deeper,

Denting the landscape

Making a new place

Between surface and bed.

 

Bigger fish live in you now

With gaping mouths

As you reach yours

and thrash happy into sea.