Behind the glass sky

a strange light yellows

and I think:

I have forgotten the sun.

A fly, heavy and erratic

loses itself into the room.

Hurls its body into the pane

right beside the open split of air.

I fill pools with pixels

while the wind sweeps cries across the sky

like swipes of a slideshow.

Behind my eye, an echo yellows.

Memory doesn’t exist.

I am the sum of scraps and synonyms.

Leaded bedding, shallow weight

grasping for something sharp.

If it weren’t for the nail clippings

and black bags of waste

I wouldn’t know time had passed.

Behind my spine, there is yellow fog.

I don’t notice the buzzing until it stops

and the fly lies dead. Legs curled

under the open window.

We meet at the finish line

and I lay my deep-fried face to rest.

The clock stops. It is a myth

hung high on a paper wall.

Sara Orvokki (she/her) has a BA in English Literature & Creative Writing from the University of Warwick and lives and works in London. Her work has previously been published in Genrepunk Magazine, FGRLS CLUB and Inklette.