This month her depression began.
He obsessed her.
She tied her heart with ribbon like a present,
licking his fingers and kissing his feet.
Words failed her.
She breathed him in like a terrible secret,
a childless woman beneath the ivory moon.
But what about his eyes, his eyes, his eyes.
Walking in the winter trees
were his shadows in the fog.
He was innocent as a lamb.
Sleep, my angel,
deaf and dumb
as the drugged summer sun.
I want you.
Natalie Crick is based in Newcastle and has found delight in writing all of her life. Her poetry is influenced by melancholic confessional women’s poetry and has been published in a range of journals and magazines including Cannons Mouth, Cyphers, Ariadne’s Thread, Carillon and National Poetry Anthology 2013.