My Rug
If my rug were a house it would have good bones, right?
I have to get a new rug. Maybe I could sell it or something.
It's good as new, kind of. So there's a little cum on it, that's whatever,
that just means there was love there, you know.
There's old grass, too, and it always smells
a little like warm San Miguel—it's got charm.
If my rug were a house it would have good bones, right?
It has a strand of hair from every person in the world.
It's a big square of solace. You know how much sleep
this rug has seen? It's older than trees.
I remember that first uni cry, drunken and shivering, dragging
my head across the blue fur, wanting to die,
hoping to live. I woke up
on the rug, in my jeans, felt a sun-ray dance on my face.
Man, I guess I could keep it. I guess it's as good as new.
Gabrielle Sicam is a writer and student based in London. She can be found on Twitter @gabriellesicam.
