I think I am a poet, or at least perhaps
could be; the serene
Prozac-prophet with sad words and
a white halo of bees. I am told I am a woman but
I hold my smile too carefully, like cracked glass.
I tug at my dress when it clings to my hips,
and my frown is too bright. I know I am a kicker
and a screamer, feral slurred bird stuck on her soap-box
But I would so much rather curl up,
disappear quietly into the golden eye, never make
a sound again — I know I am not a mother
When I spread my dead children fanned
across the soft tablecloth of my heart,
place them delicately
as if they could break; my precious tiny
animals for whom I am so sorry.
I am not a mother but I am
sorry, so sorry
for all the wine and whiskey.
Emily May is an artist and writer from East London who loves writing more than food and animals more than most people. She thinks London is beautiful but would like to go and live in the sea – not by it, in it. Until that day you can normally find her in the bar beneath her boyfriend’s flat, glugging wine like it’s going out of style and yelling at the bar staff to turn Janis Joplin up. Pepperoni pizza and her elfin boyfriend help her feel better when she gets the mean reds. When she can’t write she draws rats and carves dolls out of soap. Her influences include Sylvia Plath, Charles Bukowski, Richard Brautigan and her meds.