Busy doesn’t suit the blue eyes
that miss the open sea.
Her hair’s been tied in a ponytail so tight,
she might rip open at the seams.
She lets the shower run,
lets it wash off in streams
and pokes around for bits of her in the drain.
It seems dinner and booze
sit at the table with the working blues
and the conversation’s drowning
in the bags under her eyes.
And in the disguise
she fears she might not find herself again.
Again and again,
that is the drill.
So fucking shrill in the morning
with the alarm
‘here it goes,
here it goes’
Here it goes again.