by Zoe Brönte Faulkner
I learn how to bathe in
my own blues in a gloomy
arcade beside the beach.
I am either nauseous
from the bright, sticky
screens or I am sick
to the core of my
own aching. I can’t tell
which. So I play video
games and watch the
Pac-Men stare back
at me with gaping
mouths. This city is
full of ghosts, walking
lopsided as if there are
token coins stuffed
inside their boots.
Addicted to the thrills,
if you tilt your head
to the side, some
pennies might fall out.
Catatonic Daughters 