I’M SICK OF IT Sick of people mistaking me for floorboards or a bath mat. Sick of applying plasters to wounded actors, who play children. I’m sick of being that pen at the bottom of your bag, Or the chocolate bar at the back of the fridge. I’m the extra screws to your cabinet, The forgotten 10 pence piece in your pocket. I’m the Switzerland of arguments. I’m tired. Tired of wondering if my head’s on straight or if my hair is parted neatly, or if my nails aren’t chipped. I hate it. Hate it when I’m a mouse in a room full of elephants. I’m unused. Like the teddy your Great Aunt got you. Antibac in a gunshot wound. Uninvolved. Unwanted. Like green in your teeth and salt in your tea, Unheard of. The high pitched frequency Of nothingness. by I Fahey Year 10
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