Big lid energy

2024, 2025 in poetry. On a positive note, I learnt how to cook with stainless steel properly. Revolutionary.

I nearly died

before Paris saved me.

And never collected more shells

(or men still waiting for me to ask them out

or simply can’t stand me);

made more puzzles out of terracotta found in the Mediterranean

as a child of 37

assuming i’m either on the spectrum

like when i took those tests in Athens

or high on the dust of cutting people off

as I continued to have success in seeing through everyone and everything.

Next year, however

things are changing.

It will no longer be acceptable

not to have a book on my bedside table.

Professionally, looking forward to only partnering with people who were nice to me.

Because I live with my mother

I don’t need anyones money.

And as for men: I live with my mother

I don’t need the extra company.

And it’s basically got to compete

with my *chefs kiss* routine

of Friday nights, with pizza and wine

and weekdays of white fish and power-walking.

But I don’t worry, because I’ll know it’s him

when I notice the lid down

when I walk into the bathroom.

And i’ll turn towards him in disbelief before he’ll say to me,

“enough now, Penelope. Come with me.”