Reflection

TRIGGER WARNING

(a poem for the silent survivors)

Between the trolley and the traffic cone,

Flows the river, through the town, my home.

When I lived there, I sought a way out:

Alienated, ladette, academic lout.

Between the trolley and the traffic cone,

Flows the river, through the town, my home.

I hate the radio; I hate the clock.

I just want everything to fucking stop.

I hate the radio; I hate the news.

I am abandoned, ashamed and used.

Between the trolley and the traffic cone,

Flows the river, through the town, my home.

I hate the radio; I hate the TV.

I long for the river to flow over me.

You can’t swim, ‘mindful’, in the sea anymore:

There’s too much pollution, litter and gore.

Between the trolley and the traffic cone,

Flows the river, through the town, my home.

It’s too late now; it’s over; forgotten.

The man’s long dead, and you’ve got a lot on.

You should be over it: you’re a big girl now;

Too old to be fucked up, you self-obsessed cow.

The mist comes over; my mind splits in two.

Watching telly, further from me than you.

There’s a trolley in the river, and a traffic cone:

Is it any wonder, when we’re all so alone?

#metoo #survivors #poetry