It’s the empty chair, the empty sounds,
The pallid skin.
It’s the sallow, shadowed faces,
It’s youth blanched and waning thin.
It’s the out-lash hounded by the back-clash,
The spit, a sight of blood.
It’s the effigies younger selves made of us.
It’s the nostalgia that clings,
The stench of rotting memories, the warped floorboards,
The last bell that rings.
It’s the drinks we buy and can’t bare to touch.
It’s that talk that falls together like scissors,
It’s fast and steeled,
The nauseating, mewling sound of the adults talking now.
It’s the battering of words till they can’t feel,
Till every syllable is mangled and unreal.
It’s these sweat-kissed walls of sick maroon.
It’s the irritation under your skin, the grease on the tables,
It’s every look jabbing like a drawing pin.
It’s our voices singing out of tune,
It’s two sat down and one stood up,
It’s the window sealed shut,
It’s the forgotten round,
We’re glued together but loosely bound.
Kayleigh O'Reilly 