Hope Street by Marie Lightman

I turn the key to
the studio at 12,
you a hedgehog
on the floor, prickly,
hiding twisted

I know not to
trust you, you
can easily
switch, from
that sweet
smiling guy, the
one that
I met at 19.

to the one
who after I
left, shouted me
down, from
across the room,
at The Cardiacs
gig, infront of
of my friends.

The one that
didn’t leave
me alone, until
my fiver was
safely in your
hands, so you
could spend it
at the bar.

I berate myself,
for feeling a thing,
you beg, collapse
on the floor,
infront of the
Red House’s
reception door.

I try to reason
with you. “We need
to open up, that
metal band will
be here any
minute, wanting
to record”.

“Stop, just stop,
you, know I
have had enough.
I should have
left that night,
instead of
crawling into
John’s bed,
knowing I would
see you again
in the morning,”

“Love, you
always said that
as a sorry to
make me forgive.
Look, I have had
enough, you can
have it all, I can’t
be bothered to
see you anymore.”

I scream ” Bastard
I want my fucking
Pink Floyd, my
Abba and Flying
Lizard’s Money,”

The twat, just
keeps crying,
then stops,
as I lean to go
for the record
case, he returns
to form, postures,

As I close
the door, I
think it’s ironic,
that the studio’s
street is called
Hope, when in
the end it had
become the
site of my

5 thoughts on “Hope Street by Marie Lightman

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