Closed Curtains

Three days now

spent stale in the refuge

of my bed,

tucked between cupboard

and potted fern,

bought in a hopeful moment

of self-care and

function.

 

I think I peaked

at seventeen.

Why else

would a sixth form savant

be eight hundred pages deep

in Stephen King,

to escape the four due next week.

 

Three days of morning.

A quilt cocoon, and the same

cornflakes

poured for breakfast

lunch

and dinner

a fair exchange

for any moments stolen

from knowing that I

am not good enough.

 

Originally published by Forward Poetry: Mind Matters 2 anthology.

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Closed Curtains

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