Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Sleeping With The Fishes

It had been Christmas since late November,

you’ll remember,

that I was nervous but knowledgeable,

talking about the bodies

on the bottom of the blue and brown,

as we watched the winter lights reflect on the rain’s mother.

I had swiped and swiped,

until it felt just right,

and by that,

I mean,

my hand and my heart had been tired,

so I retired into awkward app small talk with you,

because,

fuck it,

you’ll do,

and I agreed to meet,

for coffee and conversation on the southbank.

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(It should be noted that I don’t like coffee)

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I began to wonder

whether my body would soon join the circus of corpses,

and whether I’d mind,

the selfie I’d mandated my mother to provide to the news,

being displayed in full view,

because as lovely as I looked,

being lovely,

and lost in the wayward waves of the Thames

would be extremely inconvenient,

because,

well,

I’d be dead,

so,

I couldn’t enjoy the attention.

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(It should be noted that I don’t like being murdered)

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I began to regret my mention,

of the many mischievous murders,

that began as beautiful moments.

Well meaning lonely lights,

losing their spark,

in the darkness of drowning,

dancing with dolphins,

to the sound of sirens.

Paranoid,

I pondered,

how the night would end for me,

and whether I’d put the idea in your head,

in the first place.

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(It should be noted that I don’t like swimming.

It should also be noted that I cannot swim)

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I stared into the eye of the skyline,

applying coat after coat of lip balm,

as your coat buttons gossiped with your hands,

about their plans.

It turns out,

you just hoped to take me home.

I’d have preferred the murder,

to be honest.


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