noteface

Saturday night's stain sits on the inside of my left wrist. Two days later. It refuses to wash off, mimicking the colour of my unoxygenated veins running underneath the blurred stain and up to the base of my hand. The mark that should have married old nights and new feet. 

Instead, I declined a durry for conscience, left a full drink at the bar for urgency, paid for two kebabs I could barely afford. Sat. Waited. Listened. There I was, playing Mother again. Suiting it so well, they say. Like a condescending complement from your know-it-all teenager. It's not malice, I know. Just quietly confident naivety. 

Yes. When it's someone else sinking into the river, it suits me. When I'm counting above my eight.