Roofied
Twisted sheets,
Egyptian cotton,
pin me.…
my body
collected, studied,
by a face
I don’t know,
although
Its owner has been
here all night.
Has pressed
his weight
into the hollow
of the bed,
and me
underneath,
still as a fawn
caught
in the sights.
He stretches,
hung over,
brushes the nape
of my neck,
wants breakfast,
and my number,
like it never happened.
Yesterday
I went for a drink.
Yesterday …
I struggle …
Yesterday …
I struggle …
to remember.
By the poet Cath Campbell.
