still life

by Chloe Cook

Lipstick rimming glass
imprint of bottom lip like nectarine segment
bruised purple shade Amythest Wrath
I aim for the same spot, sucking in citrus notes
The glass’ contusion follows my head, blurring
Strangers hang like swollen berries on the vine
movements slow, anchored by elbow on syrupy bar
I stroke the wooden butt of pocket knife
enclosed in jacket as pip is enclosed by lemon flesh
fingers feel its polished streak embellished by nights like these
Fantasy of fruit freshly cut from stalk, warming in the palm
The people change faces nightly, mould their bodies more generously
but their smell – fruit bowl sickly, banana peel splitting – unchanged
flies feeding at the dishes of their mouths, alcohol rotten invitations
I am an apple rolling from crowded tree, worm bitten
sensing the sagging, bathroom door is the gateway to safety, sagging of my face
I find a mirror to see it with, toilet sounding behind me
with closed eyes I wash the glass clean, water pouring over cuff
soaking up to my elbow, I push my shoulder under
tip my head beneath the faucet, washing myself down the drain

Chloe Cook is a literary fiction writer and fine artist, located in England. She holds a master’s degree in creative writing and is interest in themes of dissociation, the fracturing of reality and the contrasting stillness that inhabits everyday lives. In her spare time she goes for walks – normally with a coffee in hand, avidly fantasies about improbable things, and runs a modest bookstagram account under @thenovelobserver.