Admitting the day eyes barely open,
crack-beaming light. My pillow, still damp,
adheres to my cheek, too profane to break
its clinging hold. It’s cold, or is it just
the knowledge that waking brings? The chatter
that I can’t tear down the stairs to escape
is here and there’s no electric, but there’s
only eggs for breakfast. Eggs or tepid
coffee that it was too late to drink last
night. It slept alone in the microwave
and I meant to have money today, but
that melted in my palms before I topped
up. My hands are still sticky with it. Should
I climb up the walls and catch flies, eat those?
Betsie Flynn is a Kentish transplant to the Brecon Beacons where she lives with her husband, children, and cats. She doesn’t do well in direct sunlight, but loves garlic (so all signs don’t point to vampire). Her words are forthcoming or appearing in a few places, including The Odd Magazine, Ample Remains, and The Wondrous Real. She has been known to tweet @betsieflynn
Serotonin 