I drove past Ebbsfleet International, in the dark,
and my heart was dark, gloomy, lonely,
remembering how I’d sit after my shows,
on a bench,
drinking deep from the sweet memories of applause,
my narcissism fed for the night,
before I headed home,
to collapse into comfy sheets and disjointed dreams.
I am on the train tracks now,
and there are many trains scheduled to depart,
speeding towards me, preparing to splash my heart all over the warm metal,
but some will divert,
reaching out a hand and offering a new ending,
but I won’t know which is which until they get here,
bewitched witch, under the spell of a universe she chats with daily, but barely understands.
The past is ever present,
presenting itself as a divine kind of future,
and then, of course, there is the future,
glittering like it is brand new,
but gleaming with reminders of days gone by too,
and I find myself at a crossroads,
weighing up costs and wondering which show I’ll perform today,
and which of my girls I will decide to be.