Sophia Holme
Stock
A girl, filled with the tedium of retail,
comes home and places her fob
on the table. She puts her keys there
and her lentil stew there.
£2 carnations from Tesco on the table
she places the new songs she found this week.
the former colleague who made her feel too stupid
to cut it as a minimum wage employee.
She places the hoodie her friend lent her
and all the things she wants to buy after payday.
The sinking feeling that she will always be afraid
Her sweaty lip, from summer more humid than dryer air,
her long walks to the glow of the sunset.
Her half-finished novels.
Her characters' faces.
Her silky hot bath water.
This week's promotions.
Upselling them with the tone of a friend.
Smiling at old men.
A burning in her gut that makes her want
to show the world what she's made of.
All of it dumped hastily on the table
as if it's too much to carry for long.