Dystopia is sitting down on my bed not being able to see clearly because the cold air numbs my sight and chokes my throat, joining forces with my tears.
And knowing that your paper heart still says it misses me from my bedside table.
Glitter has been replaced by specks of dust all over the carpet.
Because I’d rather save the energy I’d waste getting the hoover downstairs for something else.
Like getting a MyTaxi just to see you have the light on and are okay.
And then return to mine to get back to bed.
Somehow that hurts more than vomiting unknown substances on black bin bags by the side of your bed.
You cured me better than paracetamol.
Your heart was dripping medicine.
But you say moquete and not carpet, so you wouldn’t agree.
And, above all, you hate glitter.