, , , , , , ,


My legs are bent.

Cramped and folded.

Inside the old family suitcase.

The soft stink of last year’s beach holiday,

Caught in invisible grains of sand.

Scratching my back.

In here I’m Nosferatu.

Teeth bared, arms crossed against my chest.

What only looks like luggage offers the kind of dark you can forget little kid fears in.