Clinical Waste
For Bev
At boarding school, I had no idea what to do
with myself. Most of the time,
I hid myself in a paper bag,
under my bed, amongst my wash things,
beneath my towel and a clean nightie.
There were no bins provided
and we were given strict instructions
not to flush ourselves down the toilets:
that was selfish and irresponsible
and would block the pipes.
Downstairs, in the cold cubicle
with the cracked pane,
there was an ancient incinerator
that belched out black smoke
when you switched it on,
but that was out of bounds.
Sometimes I crept in there, anyway,
and turned myself to ashes.
Upstairs, under my bed, the part of me
I hadn’t managed to burn
festered. Over time
the blood went from red to black,
and then to brown, and then
a rancid yellow-green.
Melanie Branton is a spoken word artist, educator and recovering anorexic from Bristol. She has been published in many journals, including Ink, Sweat & Tears, and is currently touring a poetry show about the history of the English language.
Facebook: melaniebrantonpoet Twitter: @sapiencedowne