My old friends.
I know what you do now. You change us.
You grab the frogspawn of the cosy pond and chuck it onto the ground like a bunch of black marbles. You take our friends away with a click of the spiky latch of the door by sucking the air out of their bedrooms; the only syllable I’ll hear from them and not even uttered by a human mouth.
You’re the justification that people use for indecent human behaviour and intolerance for life, and for walling themselves up in their own clandestine chambers so bursting with anxiety and monotony that the poison oozes out the cracks along the floor. It is a poison that tastes and looks good, like Snow White’s apple. Well done.
But I’ll be okay though.
Because I know that there has existed for every single one of my 21 years a long balcony at the top of my mind.
To get there is easy; all I have to do is go out the front door and press the button to call the lift.
Up there, on my lovely balcony, it is quite magnificent.
Ah how could I ever forget that I am taller than these buildings. I can hold hands with the red, glittery cranes!
There is a breeze. There are aromas of dinners floating up through the fans of hundreds of kitchen windows.
I can fly onto an Overground train gliding right to left that will take me to stops that have yet to be drawn on the Tube Map.
I’ve planted a few flowers there too. My favourites are the red tulips and the daffodils I bought from Lidl for a pound. They can’t wait to mingle with the smoky smells of the barbecue I’m having this summer.
You won’t be invited.