On Typing Paper Stolen From Her Employers She Proceeds To Evolve A Campaign by Amy Key
A feeling that I
should be writing a diary,
but every thought
feels like an abomination. Like: drunk desire,
or cling-film bed
sheets. My old diaries
bring on a feeling
like feeling uncertain in someone’s embrace.
How I lacked
ingenious neuroses!
Meanwhile, I am in
love with blondes
in the newest way
passion can exert itself. But,
it was blondes who
I first edged my knee towards,
some hours before
intolerable kisses.
Lips I’ve kissed
crumble like meringue.
Hopes should
recede with age, but this isn’t
a right-seeming
present!
Mainly, I sat with
the expectant feeling
of a passenger,
for minutes and streets away
other things were
possible. Sleep, a means of lace-edging days.
I could mock all
my past’s authentic woes
and the character
I sketched out for a novel
that might be me:
“23 years old, no imagination”.
Surely I should be
listening to other songs by now.
My imagined future is a collapsed soufflé.
Amy Key co-edits the online journal Poems in Which. Her debut collection Luxe is forthcoming from Salt. Hers is a salted caramel macaron.
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