My room.
Four walls
Of slumber.
Sucking my fist,
I am here
As a threat to myself.
My friends
And I
Sit here sometimes
And we play
Recital.
When I clap my hands
People behind the glass, they laugh
(You bitch, you bitch).
Sometimes I stop and
I think, “Wait a minute,
This is my future.”
O God. Now I must go back.
Four walls
Of slumber.
Sucking my fist,
I am here
As a threat to myself.
My friends
And I
Sit here sometimes
And we play
Recital.
When I clap my hands
People behind the glass, they laugh
(You bitch, you bitch).
Sometimes I stop and
I think, “Wait a minute,
This is my future.”
O God. Now I must go back.
✱✱✱
| Natalie Crick, from the UK, has poetry published or forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including Interpreters House, The Chiron Review, Rust and Moth, Ink in Thirds and The Penwood Review. This year her poem, 'Sunday School' was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her first chapbook will be released by Bitterzoet Press this year. |
