I'm looking down at my fingers wrapped around the handle of this knife. Nails could do with a trim. I'm looking around for a better insurance deal I'm I'm telling lies about them I'm feeling for the weak spot. I'm telling you this to get it off my conscience
This alley is darker than I expected. The moon isn't –
I'm standing here with my back to the streetlit window and my finger hovering above the call icon. It's your number on screen. I Could we just talk about this like sane fucking human beings? Could you put that down while I'm talking to you?
I'm, I'm going by the name Taxman now I'm thinking of returning this dress even though I wore it to the bar that night / That bar's closed down now / Newspaper all over the windows. Yes I'm still shooting my mouth off about things I've no right to I'm gonna turn this car around I mean I’m still the self-appointed prophet I always was / printing handbills / distributing on the streets everything I’m too cowardly to say to your face except this time I’m
I administered the paper cuts myself why can’t they stand still why can’t they I changed the locks I sign without reading the small print On the night in question I
I’m
telling you this to get it off my
record
Joanna Hope Bricher (she/her) studied at Dartington College of Arts and is now based in the north of England. She lives with chronic illness and loves sitting in trees and looking at herons. She has work upcoming in Eunoia Review. You can see some of her linocut and letterpress printing at pennybloodpress.wordpress.com.