two diary entries

If I were truly a poet, this could be a metaphor. 

I cut my leg shaving today. I watched the blood wash off and flow again. I tried to hold pressure with a facecloth but cramped up, bending in such a way I didn’t quite fit in the box. 

My love language is gift giving, at Christmas time anyways, so I skimped on the good razors and went with 1.49 Bic. My legs scabbed and scarred from years of shaving serve as a reminder as to why I don’t buy those ones anymore. But it was Christmas, and my legs were covered in the shop and my Revolut was sending me reminders.

I bought the cheap razors, and the cheap razors cut me good. 

A poem for the days between Christmases

There’s a bite in the air
like a nippy new dog,
and the quiet hope
he won’t be returned
once the newness wears off.

There’s plenty of hope.
The news hasn’t existed
for a week or so,
and the guilt of that
sits strangely in the chest.
It will return.
The guilt always does.

The fire eats envelopes
and sweet wrappers.
Someone argues about who’ll fetch
more turf from the shed.

You’re suddenly aware
of everyone you’ve ever known,
and hope in turn they’ve forgotten you.

You’re new.
You’re back.
You never left.

Take your boots off.
Hang up the coat.
Smile
at the price still left on the tag.