Like mayfly wings,
The lie of ‘I’m fine’
Is transparent. I’m not fine.
I’m really not fine at all.

Hollowed out,
Nerves vibrating
Too close to the skin
Blood refusing

To do its job,
And when the involuntary assault
Is finally over, the mind
Self-flagellates.

None of this is fine.
I can’t tell you what you want to hear.
I can’t tell you I’m FANTASTIC!
and force my smile to reach my eyes.

I tell you instead
That I’m PHANTASMAGORICAL!
You roll your eyes and laugh at me.
Joke’s on you – I really am.

I’m all the creeping beetles
Of your nightmares.
I’m the madwoman in the attic
On day release for good behaviour.

I’m skin that’s too thin,
Blood that won’t stay in,
A mind of mechanical
Precision for torture,

Your very own analytical machine,
Tearing the flesh from the wounds
We inflicted upon each others’ bodies.
You can admire the theory.

The practise disturbs. It’s a Ferris Wheel
Of opportunities missed.
I’m not taking home candyfloss tonight.
The goldfish in the bag is already dead.

I’m the edge of the joke
You don’t know I’m making.

I’m Phantasmagorical and I’m already
Two feet through the looking-glass.

About the Author:
Frances Mulholland lives in Northumberland. Her chapbook, Indifferent Deserts, was published in 2022 by Bottlecap Press. Her work has previously been published in Paragraph Planet, Mslexia, Litro, and Horla Horror.