learning how to be alone used to come naturally to me. it really wasn’t a big deal. nobody would pick me out of a line up, and it wouldn’t hurt me. what people don’t tell you is that when people are lost, you have to learn to be alone all over again. if things are cut short, those half-formed hopes are crushed like sugar glass. this is the remix. this is the beginning of the end. nobody cares about what I say, what I write or what I do. they don’t like to admit it, but they don’t hold a candle for me like they do for other girls. my face has been blurred by spots of fluorescent light. men are mysteries in love. they keep their fondness close, and try to throw you out to sea with their shrewdness. all anyone tries to do is survive in this life we have been given. there is a pressure to be grateful, but that’s hard to do when you’re always torn down. for all the romance in sadness, a night of happiness comes by far too rarely. I will make it to the top, and I don’t care what happens when I get there. at least I’ll be able to say I made it.
Published by Courtenay's Corner
Born and raised in the North of England, Courtenay Schembri Gray reared her head as a budding poet with a penchant for the macabre. After finding a kinship in the rich verse of Sylvia Plath, Courtenay has amassed a grand amount of publishing credits. Her poetry collection, The Maggot on Maple Street, was published by Anxiety Press in 2023. Twitter: @courtenaywrites Website: www.courtenayscorner.com View all posts by Courtenay's Corner