At the Minibar... For weeks, darling, Nicola Gledhill
For weeks, darling,
I’ve let the lonely in each morning at 8 a.m. and fed it pieces of my sleep, all the parts that have escaped me in twisted sheets. I’ve lived on tea and toast without jam and suffered sore knees on Sundays, I spent a grey afternoon turning pillowcases inside out, to rid them of the memory of your head. I’ve dried all my dishes the right way up so they take too many hours to drain, I lose myself in journal entries from the last week of June. I’ve stopped reading the paper, even the headlines make fun of my melancholy, darling, but I play the Amelie soundtrack most days, and have had sex just twice, and only then to feel guilty. Each time I think of you at the beginning, then remember to forget myself at the end, if only to unravel once and feel the pull again; it feels quite modern, you’d be proud of me, I know, but afterwards, lying still, I stare at the sheeting rain and count the number of baked bean tins left in the pantry, and pickles in jars, like tiny briny penises.
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