There are gremlins in the shallows of my face
Pick pocketing the needles that they tried to use to knit back together my brain
I dont have the heart to tell them its made of glass
And it breaks. Sometimes i fill it like a vase
with flowers and that.

When i walk around town people mistake them for a hat
They say, ‘hello’ and i softly speak back
But they rarely hear me
And then they turn to their friends and screw up their face and say, ‘rude!’ With a huff
And a gremlin pulls me by the ear and says ‘look at that. They think you’re a twat’
And i think Maybe i am so i take the flowers from the vase and let them wilt and die
And then i say to myself memento mori
And then i roll into bed
and rest my sorrowful head
Then I wake up and do the whole rigmarole again.