The heat of my face is unbearable
and I’m meant to be revising
but just can’t be arsed (as usual).
A headache is pounding clichéd
aches round and round in my brain;
it’s no wonder I always feel
I’m going round in circles, but the old
roundabout that used to be so childishly
amusing just makes me feel sickly nauseous.
I long for that blissful innocence.
The giddy delight of twirling unhindered
because before we would pick ourselves up
and brush ourselves off: The fall rarely
mattered. Skinned knees and scraped arms
were just a sweet path to sympathy, soft kisses
and uplifted spirits. Nothing could keep us down.