Photo by Marina Shatskih from Pexels

Choking on my own stuffing,

I’m trying to fix myself.

Attempting to repair the holes in my chest,

Whilst I’m still sat empty of feeling on someone’s shelf.

A chew toy, a counsellor, a gallery piece.

A vessel, a gift, a waste.

Anything becomes an accessory once time passes,

Anything is part of the piece.

Anything can be a trend,

Right time,

Right place.

I need to fix myself,

To start over,

And shove stuffing in further,

But you insist

And step in

To help.

Photo by Oleg Magni from Pexels

Putting beauty aside,

Locking away looks,


And body confidence…

Does my mind intrigue you?

Photo by Elina Sazonova from Pexels

The smell of gingerbread,

Primary colours,

Gentle promises of safety

And playgroup the next day.

Warm jumpers that breathed,

Woolly hats that tickled skin.

The world being just



Teddy bear.

Wooden tables with plates of rice and chicken,

In a creamy rich sauce,

With small pieces of ham.

Toys littering the room

As dreams of castles and forests

Swam in




Of opportunity.

Learning new words and overusing them.


At the centre of it all,

Characters of all shapes,






Photo by Anastasia Shuraeva from Pexels

If you bring that attitude

And your briefcase full of troubles

Through the fields

And onto private land,

You better pray

For a protective spell

In response

To the anger

Of the city folk

As well as

The village dwellers.

Photo by Vova Krasilnikov from Pexels

He sits on a roof,

A camera in one hand,

A fist full of desperation in another.

He feels let down,

Almost numb,

But not quite yet.

He isn’t ready to unleash his power yet…


Not before he can get into the perfect position,


Of course.

He faces the skyscrapers,

The skyline,

The city.

He observes the calm,

The calm that contrasted his internal anger.

His anger being an extricating pain

That he certainly had to share with




Who had created this itching level

Of frustration.

He watched the cars below,

And looks at the…

Photo by Burak K from Pexels

I need to seize my thoughts

And make them solid.


And only then,

I can place them

In the right slots.

Photo by Rachel Claire from Pexels

Red and itching,

Brown crust eventually forming,

Fixing itself into place,

Until a sharp word floats,


Straight onto the wound,

And settles.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

Like wearing a turtle neck too tight,

I want to voice my opinion,

But it is stifled

With only room for solitary breaths.

Tough to swallow,

My thought and words

Will be directed

And addressed always

To you…

So I feel an invisible hand clamp

Upon my ideas

And my tongue…

No talking.

Photo by Kelly Ritta from Pexels

I am stuck inside

Most of the time.

One part of my brain jumbled,

The other half wrapped around

Like wire.

I want to eat,

I want to sleep…

I can’t decide what not to do,

And what I have to eat.

Photo by David Skyrius from Pexels

I keep squeezing

And scratching

At my phone case.

I can’t tell if it

Is anger,

Or if it is –

The usual –

The anxiety monster

Coming to clamp down

On my rational thinking.

Erika Fischer-Laine

Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger from Pexels

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