I am cake batter. I am cake batter all sticky and eggy and spicy (I am ginger cake). I am liquid sort of thick though, and cold and it isn’t very pleasant to be me right now I tell you. There are fingers dipping in me, my body wants to fight back but it can’t. When the fingers pull out it hurts and my body sticks to them and the fingers put me in mouths. It’s okay though, I’m used to it. I’m cake batter. When I get poured out of my bowl it’s okay too. I don’t really like the bowl; I like the tin. The tin is my favourite place. The tin goes in the oven and it is warm and I feel happy and I swell with assurance and pride and probably hot air, though without conceit. The oven is nice, the tin is nice, it is nice to be cake batter in these places. I am happy in these places. I am happy.
Bed is my favourite place
like a brewery is an alcoholic's.
The source of my pleasure
is the source of my pain.
It is 3:14am.
Eye drylids are my
and I am cobbling words from emails I sent earlier.
There is such a thing as too much of a good thing,
absence does make the heart grow fonder,
and clichés are clichéd for a reason.
I spend whole days here.
Where do you think I'm writing this from?
My default position is propped up against pillows
which are propped up against headboard,
but the satisfaction of any given day can be measured
by the amount of time I manage to escape this room.
Every day starts and ends here
and sometimes the addiction proves so strong
that the period in between is spent here also.
The bed is a tomb.
The bed is an escape.
The bed is where I have read the most stories.
The bed is queen sized.
The bed is warm.
The bed is safe.
The bed is a thing
that I am glad I can take comfort in.
that separates me from the abyss.
that can be relied on to hug me.
that I trust.
that I love