I walk into a room and it feels like a funeral.
Pale faces, cold breath, blocked chimneys. Victorian
indoors. Pouts. Sleepy glass see through what
takes up the soil. Once beloved, forbidden now.
Imposter syndrome for actual imposters.
Those who’d dial trebble-nine,
toss my name on the deadpool.
Golden ticket in hand,
numbers match. My demise,
after all, been confirmed. I’ve turned up
to my wake,
Been struggling to articulate what’s happened and felt like whenever I’ve dared to go social these past few months. This is the best I could do.