And worse

I lived that summer in an architect’s error, 
the cruel setting sun making ovens of 
the study upstairs on the right, and 
the poky mezzanine in my room. 

My flatmates were a straight couple who 
approved loans for corporations and 
marketed disinfectant wipes,
respectively. 

The message arrived at ten at night, while 
I was sitting on the edge of my bed recovering 
from a first date where she made a racist joke but I
kissed her anyway because 
she asked and I hate saying no and 
it’s nice to be wanted. The doctor was 
working late. I read the message and 

it’s only the second time
I have known weeping that loud: a branch 
of the family tree would end with me, 
maybe. It was three sleeps till Christmas. 

I’d just bought a bed and it felt 
good to finally own something 
heavy enough to mourn on. 
Someone I disliked 
but who was obliged to be thankful 
had given me a bottle of lemon-flavoured vodka 
in October. I didn’t sleep at all that 
first night. The next, I cracked open the bottle and 
slept by drowning the desire for a child, 
and the next, and the next, and the next, 
a tiny tropic simmering in the loft above my head.

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Grace Shelley (she/her) is a writer, editor, teacher and parent from Tāmaki Makaurau. Her writing has appeared in publications including Sweet Mammalian, bad apple, takahē, and Tarot.