There is dust shuffling across the cap of the mouthwash,

the window, the indentations in the wooden bathroom door, and

straddling the loo roll, like grey freckles.

the top of my legs are itchy against wet plastic,

                                      hard, and even though the door is locked I feel

myself blushing; is this a safe place?

   The scum around the plug hole is a claggy eye, blinking silver

and rotten hair.

                                                                  No one says depression makes you cold.

Blue tiles eat up light, casting shadows on misted glass.

                                                                       Dirty. Streaked with white.

And I am fading out of my skin again,

                                                         the edge of my vision is stinging and heavy,

nostrils flared.

                                                 Tightness comes, a creamy bird fluttering against my 


chest and stomach and bowels and I wince,


                                                          white pills and clear liquids,

                                               airy medicines.

                                                                       This disease is made of cloud.

No one will know where I have gone.






5 thoughts on “Colours

  1. … but you left a clear log, which, in its ‘chlink’ and nail-scratchy landscape, was also – somehow – breath-taking-ly sober (apart from the ‘edge’ of your vision)

    1. Thank you for your generous words. The nautical metaphor really works for writing I think; the turbulence of the medium and effort of controlling it sometimes!

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