On Typing Paper Stolen From Her Employers She Proceeds To Evolve A Campaign by Amy Key
A feeling that I should be writing a diary,
but every thought feels like an abomination. Like: drunk desire,
or cling-film bed sheets. My old diaries
bring on a feeling like feeling uncertain in someone’s embrace.
How I lacked ingenious neuroses!
Meanwhile, I am in love with blondes
in the newest way passion can exert itself. But,
it was blondes who I first edged my knee towards,
some hours before intolerable kisses.
Lips I’ve kissed crumble like meringue.
Hopes should recede with age, but this isn’t
a right-seeming present!
Mainly, I sat with the expectant feeling
of a passenger, for minutes and streets away
other things were possible. Sleep, a means of lace-edging days.
I could mock all my past’s authentic woes
and the character I sketched out for a novel
that might be me: “23 years old, no imagination”.
Surely I should be listening to other songs by now.
My imagined future is a collapsed soufflé.
Amy Key co-edits the online journal Poems in Which. Her debut collection Luxe is forthcoming from Salt. Hers is a salted caramel macaron.