3:AM Magazine

By Melissa Mann.

Inside out

Girl hears his voice
but only because
she can see
his mouth
moving.
Her mind is
elsewhere –
it has him
surrounded:
the flesh
boy hides
inside
his skeleton;
eyes, dark,
like the space
between stars;
hair, crow-black,
that won’t be told
what to do:
surrounded.

Hovering between them,
the cigarette he bought
half-smoked
from a disabled
Big Issue seller.
It catches his mouth,
turns it into
a glowing hole.
Girl inhales,
wanting proof
she is still
breathing,
wanting to
surround him
on the inside
as well.

Girl feels the gloves -
black, medium, his -
wearing her hands,
holding them
behind her back.
She sees herself,
six years old,
a child
with chicken pox
wearing mittens
to bed
to stop
her from
scratching
the itch.

Boy drops the fag,
sees it explode
like a tiny firework
in a flagstone sky.
He is holding
his hands now,
shaking hands,
smooth and pale
like litters of newborn mice.

Girl thinks she sees
alone in his eyes,
a loneliness
that never lies,
alone his body
chooses to ignore.
Her kiss is on his lips,
the kiss his mouth
chooses to smile,
the kiss that becomes
“I should be going.”

Girl hears his voice
but only because
she can see
his mouth
moving.
Standing alone
on Bishopsgate,
the street full of
pissed-up
office workers -
one-for-the-roaders,
she watches
his “I should be going”
away from her,
and feels herself
being born
too late.

Line up

The person
who is
just like
me
died today.
He was lining up
the seams
of his jeans
with the yellow line
on the platform
edge.
I stared at him
slowly,
like I was cutting
his hair
one follicle
at a time,
and I realised
that really,
we are all
just like
somebody else.
I gripped my elbows,
disturbing the
alignment
of the stripes
on my sleeve
with the edge
of the tube map.
Near the exit,
a busker’s violin
drew
a crying child
in the air.
I felt
my face
working up
a fret.
My mouth
wanted to say
something
to the hoards
of nameless,
faceless
non-entities
hassling the
platform,
wanted to
tell them
about the
unoriginality
of our selves.
But my mouth
opened inwards
and I was just
shouting at
my own head.
A tube train
plucking the track
brought me back
to myself.
I watched as
I pushed
through
the crowd.
Then,
with hands
the size of
a lifetime,
I lined up
the seams
of his jeans
with the middle
of the tunnel
and the bullet
hurtling towards
the person
who was
just like
me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Melissa Mann is a teaspoon of ground ginger, 8oz of self-raising flour, a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda, 4oz of caster sugar, an egg, 7 fl oz of milk, 2oz of butter and 4oz of treacle, all mixed together, poured in a tin and baked for an hour at gas mark 4.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Sunday, February 1st, 2009.