By Zoe Jenkins
MA Creative Writing
my truth is buttered toast at midnight,
a hungover tuesday, a gap in my résumé
and my last cigarette for dinner.
it’s quiet and it sits in the dark, in the corner of a bar,
flipping through the jukebox, wondering where it all went wrong.
my truth is old and it’s tired.
it’s sleeping with the television on, and trimming the mould off bread,
cradling the neighbours’ cats, cutting my own hair.
it’s writing down all the things i want to tell you,
all the things you would have found so funny,
to stop me calling you up in the middle of the night
to see if we can still laugh together.