Sandwiches

No, ​I don’t mind making the sandwiches

for our piss-up picnic in the park:

it’s strangely satisfying to slice

the cheddar for your Ploughman’s

using the same knife I hack

away at my wrists with, the one I keep

hidden up my sleeve on days when I’m

not safe in my own skin, the one I sleep

with on nights when you’re away and I don’t

trust my own heartbeat, the one I reach

for when I need clarity to shine through the insanity,

with its unfailing black handle and mirrored serrated blade.

Honestly, I don’t mind making the sandwiches

at all, babe.


Originally published on Hijacked Amygdala here.

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2 thoughts on “Sandwiches

  1. Gotta love a piss up in the park with ploughman’s. Made my mouth water. I remember going to the homeless festival nr stoke Newington and thinking I was in Eden among the dog pee grass and sense of liberty. More in Europe than you’ll feel ever in America I’m certain. Oh, and I adore you.

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