Patterns
Rachel Long
I wore Speed Dial lips, starved into a new dress, and walked
into a party last Sunday in the hope you’d walk into the party
starving to see me.
You didn’t. Still didn’t. Not even peckish
for me. It was the end, and I was drunk
in a semi-circle of four men.
I left with one of them. You know him.
Well, I wanted to tell you this before he did.
If it’s any shot of whisky, the whole time I turned over
the results of a spelling test. Until thirteen, I thought stars
gathered in consolations.