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



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


poured for breakfast


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.

Closed Curtains

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