An anxious girl goes to an open mic night. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and she is scared. She pushes open the rusted, rotted door and escapes the harsh cold of the London streets for the comfort of a warmly lit pub on a Thursday night, green and red metal plates that nobody particularly pays attention to lining the walls, a man with a long grey beard nursing a beer in the corner. She takes in this sight. It’s not something novel, for she knows what pubs look like on a Thursday night, but the novelty in this experience lies in her own role rather than the difference of her surroundings. She barely notices that she’s peeled half the skin off from around her nail beds. She barely notices the slight tremor in her knees when she stands still. She’s never done something like this before. Her parents thought it would be good for her; she would soon see that they were right. It’s not that she hadn’t performed before, she had, and it wasn’t that she wasn’t a very skilled performer, for that she was too, but rather it was a secret third thing that she couldn’t quite place. A secret gnawing suspicion that despite all this, she wasn’t anything special. A fear that if people looked at her, watched her, noticed her for more than a couple minutes at a time they would actually begin to catch a glimpse of her soul. That would be too terrifying a prospect to even begin to consider for her. So, she takes her seat, cherry red electric ukulele resting against her thigh, holding it as tenderly as she would a baby. An eccentric instrument for someone so scared of being noticed. A talking point. A statement. Perhaps the only part of her skittish, silent self-presentation which suggests a desire to be seen. Subconsciously she is aware of this, though she won’t admit it now. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and she tries to rationalise her feelings. The voices in her head hold court, continuously deliberating over the likelihood of her ever seeing any of the audience again, frantically making calculations of risk against reward. Reward wins. So, the anxious girl watches all of those who will precede her. A bald man with black, thin rimmed glasses sings a Johnny Cash song, a woman with black hair and a nose ring plays the rock version of a cello, two brothers with the same green eyes sing an ode to their mother. She watches these varied, brilliant acts with equal parts reverie and self-loathing. Despite possessing a talent for music that is undeniable even to the most untrained of ears, it is her curse to indubitably believe that every person who performs before or after her is better than she could ever even dream to be. She shared a similar sentiment with her mother once but was only met with a vague look of concern and an offhand comment about seeking psychiatric help. Although, of course, this was said as a joke. Her mother has her own issues. She was an anxious girl once too. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and she finally performs. She gets on stage, fingers trembling, ears reddening, throat constricting. She takes a deep breath. She doesn’t close her eyes. If she closes her eyes, she’ll cry. She knows she can’t do that. So, steeling herself, she does what she had always done best: puts on a show. Not only in the way you would expect, although it is true, her singing was beautiful though she would be as critical of it as one would expect, but in the way that she had been trained to ever since she was a child. To plaster a huge smile over her face, one so wide her eyes appear practically nonexistent in pictures, make an amusing quip about the novelty of an electric ukulele and overall charm the audience into believing she wasn’t falling apart. After all, she had seventeen years of practice. While she sings, she scans the audience, nervously searching for the tiniest expression of approval from the sea of strangers scrutinising her every move, measuring her up against the competition. The tiniest of smiles escapes from an older woman in a grey cardigan. Our anxious girl is satisfied. Partially, at least. She could never be fully satisfied unless she could read every person who had ever met her’s mind and therefore deduce exactly what opinion each of them held of her and she knows as well as the rest of us the likelihood of this happening. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and it’s not as bad as her fears predicted. Although, secretly she knew it wouldn’t be, she just couldn’t allow herself to feel hope and then potentially be disappointed by her failure to achieve. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and she feels proud of herself afterwards. Although she does throw up from the stress on the pavement on the way home, she still got up there and sang her little heart out. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and life goes on. Nobody in that pub ever thinks about it again. Except, of course, for a little girl in pigtails and her mother who is secretly planning on getting her a ukulele for Christmas this year, although our anxious girl will never know this. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and nothing happens. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and she is ok. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night.

i thought i was over this that i’d healed my heart but i suppose i’ll never be that’s the tragedy of this art

i watch how she charms you just like all the others before runs her hands through her curls why i watch, i’m still not sure

she says something funny you lower your head hiding your smile oh, it fills me with dread

she drinks from your cup i think i’ve seen it all her spit mingling with yours while you stand there so tall

your eyes, they sparkle tracing her face with her hand in yours she’s won the race

i thought i’d moved past you but i’m back to the start my obsession will consume me but i guess that’s the tragedy of this art.

a great man was born in dublin, 1939 oh, a country torn by many a wretched swine

with more siblings than fingers on two hands born to a clan deep in the lands

brought to a small home on the wrong side of the Liffey oh, but his heart did roam told his Mam he’d be back in a jiffy

for how could he predict he’d meet an english girl Islington they had picked they were married in a whirl

a kind soul was she trained as a nurse always a little carefree read out a bible verse

soon enough they had four kids to call their own they’d say “Look Dad! We’re finally all grown!”

because soon they left too just as he had done before loved each other through and through what a family to adore

but this great man never had someone to share his interests at the banjo he wasn’t bad played his irish tunes with no diffidence

years and countries down the road his kids had kids too but that was just as his pulse slowed and illness he couldn’t push through

oh, Grandad what a shame i was eight at your wake but i carry on your name the love you couldn’t shake

for i too have a banjo now and i love the black velvet band so, for you, i’ll say a vow i’ll keep the family grand

been piecing together a family tree it’s taken me five years i hope you’d be proud of me i can almost hear your cheers

so, Grandad, what i’m trying to say i’d like to have properly known you but your legacy will live another day i’ll piece the parts together with glue.

“i have to go to greece tomorrow” i assumed you were having another breakdown or midlife crisis

“why?” i asked your best friend’s mother was dead “oh.” is all i said

because what am i supposed to say? i knew her, of course i did ever since i was a baby

brightly coloured lipstick and a lust for life- the ultimate rejection of her old age

am i supposed to feel something? because i don’t feel much of anything but i am sorry for their loss

your best friend needs you and so you’ll fly away tomorrow to wipe away her tears

it did make me think, though about what will happen when i grow older and death starts to reap my friends

i’ve never been good with grief or processing any kind of emotion really so i sit here in silence

but don’t take my reaction personally i haven’t felt anything in a while i guess that’s the truth

so, you have to go to greece tomorrow and i hope that death doesn’t come back for a long while

but i guess we can’t control that any more than the changing of the tides or the love within our hearts

i’ll see you on sunday, though i’ll have done two exams by then don’t feel bad- i want you to go

because while numbness may hold my hand anguish tugs on your heart so it’s the least that i can do

“i’ve booked my flight now, the funeral will be on friday” “that’s soon”

“that’s how it is in greece” the long silence rang in my head “oh.” is all i said

darling, do you remember? the night i found you there six feet under woodland moss you were too bloodied to care

i pulled you from the roots the trees held you as their own you folded into my calloused hands i said “my love, we’re going home”

carrying you from the forest a trail of blood swam on our tail the pellets beat down on your skin first signs of a reckoning hail

the years came and went but you never said a word still, i gained hope every time you stirred

one day a spirit called came knocking on our door she took one look at you and said “oh, it’s a shame to be so poor”

for i couldn’t afford to mend you with any spell from a merchant’s tent so i sat and listened to your breathing without a penny spent

but the spirit she was kind offered to heal you for free placed a kiss upon your forehead and willed you to come to me

your eyes fluttered open two pale butterflies mine closed from the weight of the heaviest of cries

you placed your hand on my cheek said “thank you, my dear” i thought we’d be happy now but your future’s “oh so clear”

for you had to return to the bog the same one from which i’d saved you because is it really saving when you don’t have all the clues?

because your home was the forest i mistakenly thought it was me but there’s not love lost, darling i lowered you under your tree

one last look and you were gone but i didn’t waste those years because when i turn around i see the spirit there to catch my tears.

“look at us” she said i’ve heard it countless times unbelievable truths can’t spill out of the confines of rhymes

“our reputation precedes us” and that at least is true because who would think the good girls could have ever done this to you?

but i am sick of relying upon my carefully crafted good name doesn’t the world have the right to know i share in the sinners’ shame?

with a sickening smile and a flick of my hair your life has been ruined it’ll never be fair

selfish, perhaps we are but it would always come to pass as will the chiming of the bells the shattering of the glass

i’ll lay roses upon your grave the same one i lowered you into why do i always do the dirty work? spit out what they couldn’t chew

i’m so close to breaking now my persona is quietly cracking let me guess, another coup? our crimes continue stacking

“you’ve done nothing wrong” of course, thanks to my good name everyone else is always the villain but in truth, we’re one and the same

because despite my guilt i won’t alter the course of fate i’ll cut off another girl’s head i’ll deliver it on a plate

but this time my blood will spill over the edges of the table i’ll take responsibility for this murder i’ve gotten quite unstable

so drag me to my prison cell swing me from the gallows let hoards of my victims watch as my life, my face sallows

let me say goodbye to those who knelt to crown me i won’t be here to answer your cries i fear this act may drown me.

am i an awful person? the answer they tell me is no

but see, i think i am after all, aren’t i actively blackmailing someone?

“not blackmail” you say but i’m holding on to evidence that we both know is dangerous isn’t that the same thing?

it’s for my own safety that’s what i say in case you try to destroy me i can prove that i was never the villain

sadistically i want that want to have our fight out in the air i’ve never caused drama before but now i’ve got a taste for blood

they’ll ask me why i’m doing something about it now i’ll say that i’d never pick a fight unless i knew i could win it

so am i an awful person? truthfully, i don’t care because i’ve been nice for too long forgiven too much

i think it’s time some i got my sweet, sweet revenge

if i look at old photos for too long i start to feel sick a nauseating, earth shattering sickness

in those moments before the flash time seems to stretch out forever

everybody holding poses sucking in stomachs knees creaking from the weight of crouching

then suddenly it’s over and they’ll forget all about it.

until one day many, many years later a sad girl who sits alone

rotting away in her room feeling everything at once but then again feeling nothing

will stumble across it once more and with tears in her eyes wishing that little girl hadn’t disappeared

she had so much life in her so much hope, so much joy words can not express the weight of her loss

because now the girl has no life she is but a breathing corpse with withering joy yet still somewhere hope

so she puts away the picture temporary revelation gone with it wiping away tears before her parents worry

and she goes down for dinner just like she does every day ignoring the soul of the girl in the picture

so suddenly it’s over and she’ll forget all about it.

a chill had started to spread over the inches of my body a fire had already been lit you cursed everybody

of your own femininity oh, how you’re scared i would have laughed sooner but oh, how i cared

because we were friends or so we used to say but friends don’t kill your soul each and every day

and i tolerated it for so long probably could for some more but some things i can’t forgive you’re rotten to your core

you crushed all my friends and i won’t call them ours that luxury you forfeit when the taste of your name sours

where did you learn to act like the most manipulative of men? “you’re being dramatic” you said again and again and again

please, get over yourself you think the world revolves around you think we care enough to not question every lie you constantly spew

so maybe i’ll take a page out of my own revenge handbook i’ve gotten quite a bit of practice lately your world will be quite shook

and maybe when i’ve lit a match to your name, your ego, your cries we’ll all feel a little lighter without your intangible, incessant lies

oh, would you look at that? the sight of you being dropped out of the door of our lives and just like that the chill stopped.

“i wish i had never let go” is that what you want us to say? “come back, i need you” but that isn’t our way

at coups, oh, how we excel stage one whenever we get bored and the consequences they reap? a luxury we will never afford

it’s always for a reason, though or at least so we tell ourselves because what’s another lie to stack up on the shelves?

of course, we’re never the villains good girls who always behave the ones who wrong us burn at the stake just poor souls they couldn’t save

but naturally we’re complicit none of us may go quietly now we must silence you before you think to denounce our final vow

circle you like vultures closing in on their prey you’ve got a mark on your back, honey how i wish there was another way

teeth pierce your flesh and the blood boils over anguished cries you scream better wish upon a clover

some feverish hours later we may emerge from the slaughter licking blood from off the pavement oh, we gulp it down like water

sure, we may feel bad or is it a careful illusion? but temporary is guilt when you live in pure delusion

as one who polishes her fangs could never truly hope to be as innocent as they say she is but for now i guess we’ll agree to disagree.