HG
I know others blossom
but I vomit ectoplasm,
and squaring the corners of my bed,
the nurse reminds me I’m not dying.
I’m just expecting an alien
that feeds on my nerves because
I’m not even exaggerating
how much her old school air is grating on me.
I decide I’m not bothered about the vomit on the floor
but concentrate instead on the idea
of throwing myself off the Eiffel Tower.
If I’m going to die then I’ll go with a bang, in Paris,
wearing a gown not covered in sick, with
skin on my bones and macarons for the afterlife.
Tanya Joseph is a writer and mixed media artist.Her work combines literature and visual art, focusing on themes of identity, memory, and transformation. When she grows up she wants to be Indiana Jones; when she’s gone she wants to be remembered for her scones.