Photo by Isabella Kramer
I thought you would fix me.
Years ago.
I thought that the way you
lit up whole rooms
meant that you could light my dark places.
I thought that the way you
commanded attention
meant that you could command my demons to leave.
You made me think I needed fixing.
I didn't realize then
that your light was stolen.
You suck it from the people around you
and spew it out again.
Regurgitating glory,
what people want to see.
It changes, your light,
depending on who you steal it from.
You wear it over your features,
a soft focus blur,
a veneer,
it hides that you're hollow.
You made me think I needed you,
when all along you needed me.
The Author
Harri Aburrow-Newman is an English writer, artist and science geek living on the East coast of Yorkshire, in a house filled with books, beasts, bright colors and cacti. They like to hide in their loft and write poetry and queer, urban fantasy novels while looking out at the sea.
Harri Aburrow-Newman