Rest and Be Thankful

by Emma Glass

Your hairs stick to my bare feet, there is dust in the corners of the room. This is how I live now, in this domestic disgust.

Poor Pigeon does get a little bit of my love, but I must keep some in reserve.

Tiredness falls off like shrivelled snakeskin, it will hang over the doorway and wait for me until the end of the day.

Darkness suits you, makes you bigger, makes you harder, makes it easier for me to slam the door.

I am fast asleep when you tell me this is the last time.

I squeeze it and breathe in and I look in the mirror and say to myself I look thin like this and then let go of my gut and watch the wobble and say maybe this is why you don’t love me any more?

I am partly impressed and partly terrified at my ability to function, to pull myself together, to remain present and to present myself. I am half an hour early.

I’m a mess, my life is a mess, he knows already because we share this space where we are always on hold and are always on call.