Kelly Lawrence

It’s night all over again with less moon and more stars and parked cars. It’s some boy with too much chocolate brown hair and steps like a lost puppy, screened by smoke rising from the lips of my face. He’s walking with a limp, a hesitation, he’s walking nowhere. He keeps going and going and then he’s gone around a perfect corner, onto another clone street. Big eyes all wondrous and lost and so much agony in a figure bent by rules and oh isn’t he that boy? The boy with blushed cheeks and denial of sight, he didn’t do his homework and he ended up in a too small desk watched by a devoted hag, order sharp on her parched tongue.

What rebels we could allow.

Don’t be scared. But he is, he’s scared of the night and he’s scared of rebellion. He’s scared of what will happen when he says no; so he’ll walk to answers and maybe he’ll find drugs and poisons – maybe he’ll trip to the edge or remember why stepping was so appealing.
Stay inside, honey. What’re we hiding from? Ourselves? The people we’ll become, the people we’ll meet and remember and fucking love like life was fucking meant for.

Maybe mummy doesn’t want us to find our way out.