Out on the wonky patio

you read Le Petit Prince aloud
while I shaved your head

only pausing
to swig cider
or look at the drawings.

I had to rush, though, once I knew
that you were dangerously close to
that part

for I could not bear
to hear your voice
telling me that I
was beautiful but empty

that one could not die for me
because it was true

and because I would
have died for you
and that truth
hurt mon petit coeur.

To get you to shut up,
I nicked the top of your left ear
with the razor blade.

It bled for days.

©

HLR is a 20-something writer of CNF, short prose and poetry. She writes primarily about her own experiences with mental illness, grief and addiction. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in streetcake, Dear Damsels, Dust Poetry, In Parentheses, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Re-side and The Hellebore. Her story ‘On The Cusp’ made the Lunate Flash 500 competition shortlist. HLR was born and raised in north London, and is yet to escape. Read more at www.treacleheart.com or @treacleheartx