A less tiring title for a less loathsome poem would have been desired
by more than only three poor souls who turned up that afternoon
and I felt as if the ground would tear open and tear me downwards,
spiralling on my own accord, my gravity lost in the fall.
I had no clue who was ready to bury the hatched - out of four
only two turned to me and stroke my broken wings.
I took another deep gulp of air, turned and faced my fear,
all my demons that had been hiding behind pillars,
sheepishly grinning at me, with their fricking features,
their tomboyish attitude almost broke my will to succeed.
I will or will not succumb to my desire to turn around and run,
run till my fingers bleed and write till I run out of oxygen,
“Either way, you’re gonna lose it all, your face, your savings,
even that black cab waiting for you round the corner.”
Any second, any minute that went by I grew less and less steady
on my feet and a faint voice from another time yelled into my ear
from afar that “you don’t need this disease, not right now”,
and I was so sure it was Tom calling to me from another place
in another voice, where French was less frowned upon.
Nevertheless, I did turn around, I faced my fear in shaking boots,
and three pairs of eyes fixed their gaze on my forehead,
and still they are judging me to my very core.
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