Journey from the Car-Park

A swift stranger,
stabbing me in the back.
They are against me: 
the wind and the iron gate.
They smash against my
left ankle.
Self-sent
house-warming gifts
fall with me
to taste the heels of strangers.
I choke on tears in the wind.

My framed artwork has been attacked:
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland - cracked, it
cuts my ring finger.
I shoulder my overflowing bag of
Feminist books (just in case),
my antique mirror cold pressed against
my waist
and walk past the lady on a
fag break outside the bookies
her body built like an 80s car - 
her head protruding through the sunroof.

The graffiti on the wall in front of our house reads
GREED.
A preceding A appears,
then more each day:
'Those who don't complain allow themselves no place'
and though I am home a lot, I never see them do it. 

Once inside the house, 
I peel off coarse black tights
and find a perfect triangle of skin
folds off with them.
A circle of deep red at the centre.
It has wept down to
pool in the heel of my left trainer,
track marks like tears
from a clown's eye. 
 


Sally is a 26 year old writer living in East London. She is currently finishing a Masters in Children's Literature and Creative Writing at Goldsmiths University and has worked previously as a teacher. Sally is committed to writing honest and thought-provoking fiction and poetry about everyday events which inspire her, including depression, death, gentrification and heartbreak. Sally works with local literacy charities and is working on a novel for Young Adults. 

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