Monday

super sad again today, choosing names for children that I’ll never have.

Tuesday

thinking about that time we took a bottle of rum for a walk through the churchyard & along the river at 5am & I had a secret packet in my jacket pocket & we sat among the sleepy ducks & snorted it as the sun came up & felt like we were properly in love with one another for the first time since the very first time.

Wednesday

I can’t remember if I sometimes behave badly because of all this psychiatric medication I take, or if I take all this psychiatric medication because I sometimes behave badly.

Thursday

I want to make a fish pie, but I do not have the strength to mash potatoes.

Friday

listless / restless / useless, will I ever be well???

Saturday

when I miss you, I hug [the memory of] your skeleton.

Sunday

10 hour zoom party (calculated euphoria!) then the morning devastation & my life still isn’t done… so why is yours? Would I want you to live through this? Of course. Selfishly. Of course.

HLR (she/her) is a prize-winning poet, working-class writer, and professional editor from north London. Her work has been widely published since 2012, most recently by Hobart. HLR is the author of prosetry collection History of Present Complaint (Close to the Bone) and micro-chapbook Portrait of the Poet as a Hot Mess (Ghost City Press). Twitter: @HLRwriter