In this house of flies
I sit with my mouth agape,
two-jaw encore to a wake.
Eyes wide and white as saucers.
Face masked in a glossy sheen.
All insects die; yet here I am,
still thriving like a beehive.
Someone’s fucking shouting again.
The queen smacks the back of my head
and again, someone’s spilt her milk. Oh
god who will be the one to cry this time.
Who will draw the flag to half mast.
Who will shoo the ants that come. Who
will be the first to apologise. Who will
lap it up and pretend it was straight
from the shattered glass.