can you talk?

it’s 01:37 am and sophie wants to die.
i know she’s not joking this time because it’s all

(sophie is twenty-two and loses herself
like an earring dropped through a crack in the
                                                    im siry im grealk y frunk rihg nos
do you know where she is?
                                                                                itd nir nt jokw
there’s nothing i can do from my shoebox in birmingham so i
                                                                                          (.  .  .)
so i sift through photos for clinking metal on porcelain,
rattling rusted cabinets, hash marks on

i go back to london to see her.
she never liked makeup but today she’s wearing

when i am home it feels like
squeezing my feet in doll

and i understand sophie a little better, understand
that home is home once, and then it is a

drawn on cafe napkins,
alien keys,

Phoebe Kalid

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