The clap set the whole thing off. Letters aren’t expected task-masters and the flicted fail of separation was a drama scripted better than shows Brits have been on. And the party sank with flags up, cowboy boots and drinks up. And you can’t say it isn’t a little of the, “Go back to where you came from.” Because the phrase is a shockingly numbered for a started 2013 game show. And the British look smaller than ever, ganging and slagging and winners.
You record me sleeping, watching the dip, up of my hips on my memory-foam matress, which my mother won’t let you sit on. Once, we kept my door closed for six minutes, achieved nothing but we eke away at our curfews, the rules around us and online, 24/7, I and the other girls you Facetime, chat, watch the other’s wall paper.
I ask if you’ll save me but like the lie that you told about the girls that you’d slept with and the detail you went into to cover the fact that only your hand and a sheet and your shoe – it’s sewn up.