Have you ever held Death’s hand? I have. I have pulled it to my cheek and told it to slap. Stupid girl, brilliant bones. Feel it. Feel it!
Do you see witches in your sleep? Not the broomstick type, not the illustrations from your past. The ones who brush wispy fingers over collarbones and snap, snap, snap, without blinking.
Would you throw food at a badger? Nothing is black-and-white, you have not seen the blood tracking from its lips. Yum.
I am asking questions to answer the white noise.
Yes Sir, I will return the towel to your wife tonight. No, no, I’m sure she misses you, I’m sure she’s not forgotten you yet. I became Death’s receptionist in my uniform of bones.
Tell your mother I’ll open the window for her- let her seep through the seams and gasp for the air she forced through her IV. The air is always cleaner outside. Brighter too. Lighter. Light her
a cigarette, she’s begging, please! It’s me now, I’m the beggar or maybe it’s you. It was always you in the white dress, actress, God bless. Fuck.
Perfect daughter, Atlas’s wife. Women don’t take weight; women don’t pull chains through their backs in protest. Women put fingers in pies and lie.
Cry, baby. Cry it out.
Cry-baby, I hope you drown.
Sophia Papasouliotis (she/her) is a poet from Bristol, UK.