Salty Saturdays: Maybe – 27.02.2021

Maybe you eat the chicken raw if the chicken is what you like.

Maybe I cut the phone because I hate social connections.

Maybe you drink out of a larger cup because you’re greedy and don’t give a fuck that there’s nothing left for the rest of us.

Maybe I raise my eyebrows at you, for hoarding your shit. I hate it. All of it.

Maybe you apologise for being a dick and then wank yourself with an old sock.

Maybe, I’m just overthinking the possibilities? I mean, didn’t you say you were vegan?

Salty Saturdays: HER – 13.02.2021

Once my hair fell way past my shoulders.

I never used to think much of it.

One night I stayed over at my aunt’s house.

One night she cut my hair down to 2 inches.

The next morning, she braided it in brown hair extensions and said nothing.

A few weeks later I discovered my hair had been cut.

In my thoughts, I skin her scalp back.

I cut off her forefinger and middle finger.

I clip the corners of her eyes, with a pair of toe scissors.

I sew brown extensions into her scalp and saturate it with oils.

One afternoon I saw her.

One afternoon I heard her horrible voice.

One afternoon I played the fiddle and watched her fall hard.

Her husband had cheated on her and took her money.

Her husband came back to her house.

Today my hair falls past my shoulders.

Today I type and I write my truth.

Today her sins caught up with her and she swirls around endlessly in a deep pool of salt.

Her eyes are burning, and her tongue has fizzled away.

My word, she’s a waste of life.

Salty Saturdays: Reception – 06.02.2021

Reception – 06.02.2021

The reception was about as weak as waiting in the rain at London Victoria coach station.

I thought receptions were about a celebration of some kind, whether that be life, death or like earlier, love? Maybe, I’m not smart enough to comprehend the meaning behind them.

On the menu was a traditional Sunday roast: Chicken, potatoes, carrots and gravy. Only, what we were served was dried out chicken breasts, rock hard potatoes, cold carrots and watered down gravy.

My cold plate was washed out with cold hard objects, they labelled fine dining.

I was seated at a table with a pursed lipped smoker and her ashy fingers. Fingers that kept accidentally brushing my exposed skin and a wrinkled mouth that said, ‘forgive me, love. Your skin is so soft, I use the finest lotions on my own skin, see!’ then reaching out and grasping my hand. I lose count at the third attempt.

Now, I love apple crumble and custard but the crumble was more like a chunky apple sauce, with a crumble dusting. Topped off with cheap, lumpy, piping hot, sugary custard. My stomach was growling and the drinks were tasteless.

The reception was a damp attempt to please the masses.