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by Oak Ayling


Thursday is the name we gave it, some

kind of broken  silence, a name,

a band aid over what we cannot fathom,

nor bear to look at.. Cover something

we could call a betrayal with a word like

love. A name - a damn name to cover

our nakedness. You don’t listen. & I

am almost sorry to still have these words

in my mouth,  still I am spilling open,

into your terrified lap into your shaking palms,

not fast enough to close before the catch

I am small, shrinking, as water between

your fingers, whittled down to something

fine, like a toothpick which may snap

between your teeth. The way that dawn

breaks through the fractured limbs of trees

their scorched fingers twisting up to heaven

as if to say,


Don’t leave me here alone.


Oak Ayling

Oak Ayling is an English poet whose work, both current & forthcoming, can be found in the Literary magazines; Anti-Heroin Chic, From Whispers to Roars, Foxglove Journal, Drunk Monkeys, Furious Gazelle, Memoir Mixtapes & in print anthologies 'For the Silent' from Indigo Dreams Publishing & 'Light Through the Mist' from author Helen Cox.

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