Written by Rosie Allabarton on Monday the 3rd of December 2012
There have only been waking states;
holding the morning back with my hands
holding the curtains closed
against thick light
that becomes so easily thin
and frayed at the edges.
It slips through my fingers,
clings to the particles of dust
that lurch through the air;
grounded, small patches of joyful filth
making a home on my clothes and skin.
His top lip curls when he says my name and
standing too close he asks a question
he doesn't want an answer to,
the sound of his own voice pearls
in his cloth-ears
sodden with vowels.
The king of that unwanted morning
asks how I am and laughs
when I answer, laughs
before I've even answered
and under the covers
dust under dust
I kill him nightly in my dreams.