Natural Selection

Smashed glass bottles;

thick, translucent

eggs hatching alcohol that

trickles

across the dance floor

like the blood that

seeps

from the cut skin

of the injured,

sharp shell birthing

a new race of poison-veined

monsters with a hundred

amalgamated feet

that stomp; reproduce; sacrifice

another for the survival of the species.

 

There will be no boom or bust:

these creatures are out

for evolutionary success

and do not care

who gets trodden on

in the process.

 

A.N.

On the dark side of clubbing.

Advertisements

Daynight

It is on nights like this that time

truly does seem

to stand still –

or, at least,

to slip more slowly.

Is it day

or is it night?

Perhaps it is a kind of…

day-night,

for daylight persists

even into the dark.

Tonight is light time.

They are all you can see:

lampposts; overheads; traffic signals.

And the white, white sky

and the white, white ground

and the white, white horizon.

All the people have vanished,

been blanketed,

asleep in their vehicles that attempt

to carry them safely to bed;

huddled in their buildings,

drawing their curtains

and their blinds

so that they can forget what

lies in wait

outside.

 

A.N.

The UK is currently in the middle of a snow storm and it’s. Not. Coping.

Nightlights

There is a

light bulb inside

my head that stubbornly flickers

off and on; off and on; off and

on,

creating an unsatisfying half-sleep

– a no-man’s land –

some way between consciousness and

unconsciousness.

All my worries and wants for the future reside there,

crackling,

electrical currents that conjure both

a beacon of hope

and a garish

warning

signal.

 

A.N.

It was 2 a.m. on a Tuesday morning; I couldn’t sleep; I thought writing might be a solution to that, seeing as it would help to empty the contents of my hyperactive brain. It didn’t solve my sleep issue – instead, it introduced more things to think about. Although, I did get a decent piece out of the situation.

PANIC

One minute,

you’re fine.

 

The next,

your hands are buzzing like bees in false defence.

You’re overheating.

Your heart is sprinting a marathon.

Your legs threaten to vanish from under you.

In a sudden spurt of energy you have outdistanced Time.

And as you near the finish line your body is failing.

You can’t breathe

you can’t talk

your calves give way

you collapse in hysterics

but lack the oxygen

to even express your pain.

 

A.N.

At the time of my first panic attack, I had no idea what was going on. I wasn’t anxious about any particular thing, but all that had been stressing me to do with school, extra-curricular activities and my personal health must have been building up and up until it all got too much. I remember having to sit down at every chance as I struggled to make it home, then collapsing on the floor in tears in front of my family, who took me to A&E. It is written in second person in order to allow readers to imagine experiencing the changes for themselves, or to create empathy in those who have gone through something similar.

Trapped

I, snarled in thick limbs,

Cried myself to sleep last night.

Can you see the salt?

 

A.N.

The story behind this haiku is greatly personal, but I would like to share it on here as both an explanation of the words and a record for myself. I composed it as I fell asleep the day my psychologist had told me that I would have to keep gaining weight to be at a lower risk of relapse despite being a ‘healthy’ weight, albeit at the very bottom of the range. I must have known, deep down, that this would happen, but I held out hope, and even tried to argue against it. That night, hyper-aware of the extra fat my body had accumulated, I broke down. That’s what eating disorders do to you, I realise: make it seem like a couple of numbers on a scale and vital body fat are the end of the world.