Hawkins you infiltrate my mind like wildfire.
Hawkins I am scared of you.
Hawkins when will you admit the lie?
I have my theories, my drugged conspiracies.
I have a VHS tape that I must return.
Hawkins swallow me like a lemon drop.
Hawkins Burroughs tells me I’m navel-gazing again.
I’m sick of these kids riding their bikes past my window.
Hawkins I don’t think I can stomach another war.
Hawkins the radio plays nothing but static.
The neighbours gossip about a girl with a number for a name.
Hawkins we used to be close.
Hawkins they’re pulling bodies from your rivers.
Hawkins where are your morals?
I should escape to Tangiers, but your pull is strong.
Hawkins I’ve given you $100 since January.
I took Kerouac to the diner on Monday.
Hawkins the cops swarm your veins like bees.
They kicked us to the curb, our coffee not even cold.
Hawkins I am not in the mood for your games.
Hawkins your ink is running thin.
Jim found that girl in an empty pool.
He thinks I’ll believe his hollow excuses.
Hawkins don’t take me for a fool.
Hawkins the rent is overdue.
Hawkins how can I be serious?
Men in white coats watch me sleep.
Ugh. Their chubby fingers pinch my hairs.
Hawkins I’m being sincere.
Hawkins I hear the ticking of the clock.
Courtenay Schembri Gray is a writer from the North of England. You’ll find her work in an array of journals such as Misery Tourism, Expat Press, Rejection Letters, Hobart, Bath Flash Fiction, and many more. She will often post on her blog: www.courtenayscorner.com