Shakespeares corner

From the football field in the rain. Warmth, correctness. The chair comforts my wounded, empty stomach. Rain comforts, the changing room comforts. Hiding, in shell, is comforting. My bedroom is comforting. My father’s beard that comforts will eventually be mine;  my mother’s steps away, that comfort, will not. I will however, be my grandmother’s phone calls. Through sadism, through rape, through infanticide and through heroes shattered. The iron runs through like bullet sand I stand on the grass. Iron like claret, like the scattering of crows in the morning. Like fireworks, like tears. Growing, trying, worsening, learning.

I’m getting older and I don’t like it.