an evening in Watford.

Evelyn shuts the door as she
twirlswhirls(hurls)
herself towards her vinyl
records, caught up in the
sorrow of her ballerina tattoos.
Evelyn's sublime view of her torn
and dying Scarlet Carsons made her saccharine
like long long before, as a Bee Gees
tune hummed in the air.

She listens to it intently and realises
that this is music.

God asks her how deep her love is,
and she yells out loud that He
does not exist. She prefers him that way,
she whispers, and closes her eyes, shielding her
mind from the poison of the ceiling. She feels like
her neighbour, Carrie, but the exact
opposite.

Carrie had a mother who believed in God.

She basks in all the warmth of the
room, the yellowness of it all,
the Charles Dickens-esque wallpaper
and the Romeo and Juliet carpets.
She runs her hand along them, caressing them.
She breathes in the rushing stillness
of the air and blows away the speckle of dust
on her nose. She grins at the simplicity of it all.

So this is living.

Evelyn opens her eyes slowly, an eyelid a minute but
she recognises the freshly groomed hair, the
suspicious darting of obsidian eyes,
the aquiline shift of a nose, the chapped pink
lips and the impeccable whipping sound -

whipwhipwhip -

heading towards her front
doorstep.

"i'm home."

a cackle.

the door opens, and in just a split second,
reality comes crashing down on her
perfect, perfect fantasy.

-

a comeback poem. (: