Lost Child
A stray ghost, I think as I lie in bed. She would definitely have fun here in my sleepless head. Noone really likes hide and seek - there is the terror of not being found, through spite or neglect; is that how ghosts are made, hiding and noone to find? but I contain oh so many forgotten wardrobes and worlds. I see her with dusty knees and pockets, (I would make sure she always had pockets, to keep her treasures.) We would sew tiny books from scraps of paper and she would write secret messages to me, her imaginary friend, post them in the nooks of trees in my mind, that lonely dreamscape with the mist and dragons and dusty furniture my hollow heart, hands, belly, empty rooms to hide. Rearrangement Her energy is more disorderly Scattered through the space Where she used to sew hems Sip tea, wear socks to warm her feet On the kitchen tiles. She bounces from the shine Of chrome taps and empty mirrors Frantic as a bird Beating against captivity. Death is. Death is just A rearrangement. She is Still here, in fragments. I try to catch a wisp of the laughter The smile of her, the kiss Try to forget Entropy. Once we were where did the anger go to crush smash reduce to fucking atoms even those split by our ferocity the visceral pulse bodies thrashing with ecstatic rage heads thrown back not howling but from the bowels of us sound dragged from the pit they dug for us we flew spinning shocked to monstrous life we sparked a war and traded our integrity for a semi in Guildford Bio: Sadie (@saccharinequeen) Sadie Maskery lives in Scotland by the sea with her family. Her writing will be found in various publications both online and in print, and she can be found on Twitter as @saccharinequeen where she describes herself, optimistically, as "functioning adequately ".
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