The Priory Girl
She was a corpse,
the girl. A friend of a friend.
Long wiry fingers
accentuated every word
that pretended she was okay.
She snatched for breath,
poor girl. They said she was well.
Sharp cheekbones cutting
through her food, making it the meal
that meant that she was better now.
Her eyes were sad
today though. Not a big surprise.
Light was made of it
like she was better now.
She slipped quietly to the loo.
She ate it all,
the girl. She had chocolate tart
and sipped through an espresso.
Then slipped quietly to the loo.
She sat back down
with mirth. It made me wonder
just how far down her throat
those bony fingers had to go
to drag that smile onto show?
Based in Yorkshire, England, Lloyd Hartley spends most of his spare time reading, writing, swearing, and running. He dresses like a ponce, collects records, and prefers the company of his cats to most people. He is writing a novel.