Porridge

Sticky sweetness bound together

By oats in the morning drizzle

Grey days poured away with the milk

As the sugar clumps in my mouth.

Waking up before daybreak

To only the light from the water tower,

I pull my scratchy tights on,

Stumble downstairs to my breakfast.

I am so tired and eat so slowly

That the porridge hardens and cools,

Feeling heavy in my stomach.

Dawn streaks across the sky while I rush,

Late again, to my classes.

I cannot say I  miss those primary school days.

 

 

 

 

 

Assembly

Agitated

I can feel the wool sleeves of my uniform creep up

The itchy strands rubbing against my wrists

While my blouse stretches taut across the ligaments of my throat.

I struggle to refocus my blurred gaze

But the speaker melds into the stage behind him

The microphone covering his face.

My hands are empty and ungainly

Legs creaking on the grains of the wooden pew.

So indistinct that they call me ghost

Like I’m not around to hear them

Appearing and disappearing

Even I can’t tell if I’m there or not.