Sorry it’s late. I have a lot on.
Scared
Running late, phone conversations
under-cooked chicken, evenings alone
psychological horror stories;
my hair straighteners are still switched on.
Locking myself out of our house, again
forgetting which tablets were taken with lunch;
a constant ache I am not enough,
inability to keep up with their games.
Remembering other people’s names
whitening that nasty grout,
chipping off the limescale;
consumed by crippling self-doubt.
Rooms full of people I don’t know
The countless ways to cause offence;
Replaying those last three instructions
Refusing to argue, on the fence.
The truest, deepest fears within
far crueller fright, mind scared beyond
that shonky nightmare fuel on screen
avoid the lake, idiot teens.
The Internet of Words 