By Pamela Scott


All of the old rituals;

reading a favourite poem, a page of prose,
alphabetising lists in my head, wearing
mismatched socks, only stepping on
every 3rd stone on the road,
making up a new playlist –

even the touch and smell of my lover’s skin,
salted caramel hot chocolate (with cream),
the hot sun on my face

have started to fail,

their old magic has faded,
come to nothing
the old rituals have abandoned me

the darkness is back, stronger
then ever, pushing into the
softest, deepest parts of me

I can hardly breathe

I feel her, my old enemy,
clawing at my throat,
her hand covers my mouth,
suffocates me

her voice whispers poison
in my ear, turns every good
thought black until it rots in me

after all these years,
of fighting back, keeping
the bitch at bay

a part of me wants to succumb

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