four kittens drowned in a plastic bag that someone paid 5p for

 

my mother hangs up on my failed suicide plea because her jam is boiling over

and really            it is a nightmare to get out.

 

i sit at the breakfast table picking rusted nails out of my porridge

you swear you never put them there

 

i have had a migraine for fourteen years

 

the last three notes i took read;

• art
• art
• who knows you?

 

who knows me

a sentient sad sack of water and pity

 

i scatter things around my room, hoping someday someone will see them

and say

‘oh. that's a cool thing to own.’

 

my manifesto is this

a poem a day means you’re getting somewhere

even if it’s nowhere you want to go.