Poem by Anna Royle – Creative Writing Editor
Velcro scratches my back like tiny teeth, perforated satin stretches across an empty stomach, primed for gulping down bubbling apple cider and petrol-tasting coke from a red cup— camouflaging lipstick stamps, until my lungs are retching from the shadowy smoke, lifting leaves mushed like Stu’s brains after the television, back into the vermillion bokeh, a cackling plastic witch greets me as I steal a sweet from a zombie claw.
Cotton cobwebs tickle my neck as it bends like Victoria Pedretti in the show that I bet you thought was too slow— an own-brand Dracula— clean goggles of peachy skin, the jammy inside of your lip swoops in, scattering me towards the Scooby Gang, thumping to the Time Warp. I went to school with Daphne, ginger wig static in the sweaty air. My red wine remodels the lilac dress to a deep magenta and Fred’s looking more attractive than ever.
I try to leave the hallway, dying to join the others drowning in the depth of festivity. A Ghost Buster’s hands are slapped on my shoulders, my heels stuffed into the carpet. Apparently I need to leave— now. His sigh is met with my smile through the bile dripping on my lips at the irony of his American janitor jumpsuit with his prop of a mop, his PU leather boots polished with floor cleaner. Ankles twist, the heartbeat of the house pulses through my head. I fell asleep until November. I hope the Christmas party is better.
The Gown Online 