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Unsaid


Author
Skye Wilson

︎@skyegabrielle



I stand up, stumble, wrap my naked,
sweaty skin in my softest sleepwear.
My nose leads my shuffling limbs
to the kitchen -the brightness burning-
and over the dull ache of my body,
I feel a sizzle, feel a cup of tea,
feel a fry up start to cure me. I ignore
the unsaid something in every bite.

For hours, curled over my computer,
I sit with aching eyes body brain,
I have to do this; my degree
depends upon it. The gap between
us creaks open like a cellar door
I do not stop- the gentle clattering
in the kitchen unfurls into the scent
of roasting meat. I pause, and we eat.

My body tumbles through the door,
all mascara and man-hating, ready
to cry into cocktails. We make magic
with cookie dough, fold too hard, gasp
nostalgia, splodge too much chocolate
in the middle, bake for a little too long.
They are perfect; crumble on our tongues,
bring us back into ourselves.