Poetry

My Ghost And Me

Caitlin Atkins

Space twinkles with fairy lights, candles dripping jasmine wax, I look at my sultry velvet sheath and pry apart scarlet lips, searching for pointed teeth. My bones stick out, hollow, ready to take flight, elegant and emaciated. An artisté.

My hair falls to my hips, drowning in perfume, “I am alluring. I am special.” I whisper to an empty room.

My eyes flicker open, ocean grey not emerald green. The girl in the glass is short, with full cheeks, strong arms poking out from her ragged white sheet. I think her eyes are grey, lost in those little black holes, swimming with hope and drowning in dreams. She wants to be me, or so I’m told. She wants to be sophisticated, and… cultured, when she’s old. My heel catches on nothing, velvet too fine to be anything I crumple tumble - undone. My ragged white sheet is torn on the floor, my lips are dry and chapped, my old lines scatter the carpet, The woman in the glass tips her head back and laughs.

Warm in mouths staining chapped lips

Rosy tongues to match those windswept cheeks.

Red Wine Zara Connoley

Mismatched vessel

To clink in sophisticated manner, Though it is still trickling down the throat.

Is this maturity?

Forming in a seductive pour

Top me up, And make me coffee in the morning.