By Naoise Gale

I am a perpetual Vera Lynn, always singing about meeting again in a bar,
Perfumed air of vapes, bottles glinting with liquids of all the colours:
Rust; ochre; vermillion; plum; lizard-green. The candied air moves in
Circles through mentholated vents and arrives in my throat like a
Curse. Choking on karaoke drug tunes, I drink amaretto like the new
Cosmopolitan girl I am, from a clunky bottle, mouth a kiss around
The resplendent neck. The air is thistle-coloured and deep with
Stale sweat. I think about drugs at least twice a day: in the naked
Morning, when my face is mashed potatoes and gravy leaks from
Each shuttered eyelid – I move marionette, arms levered to the
Old hiding place before consciousness cures my wicked ways. And
Midnight, in the stillness of my single room, blinkered stars and
Polished teeth – the moon looks like a pressed pill in the mouth
Of the black sky. Most nights, I still dream of highs beautiful as
Dawn’s opal coastlines, and I wake with a soggy pillow
And a sense of loss.

Naoise Gale is a twenty-year-old Modern Languages student living in Italy. She writes poems, short stories and novellas about mental health and eating disorders. Her work has been published numerous times in Young Writers’ UK anthologies.

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