Brecon to Bronllys (Hospital) by Betsie Flynn

Articulated silence because nobody’s talking. There’s dung

on the roadside, it’s clawing into my tear ducts

and arching my patience like a cat who, regrettably, must stand up.

Agreeing to come wasn’t like a handshake between friends

when it’s that or you won’t be able to choose when to leave.

When it’s that or you won’t be able to choose when enough

is so far beyond enough that breaking a finger on a bedside table

just to stay alert seems the only option.

The hedgerows canter

peripherally. My lips bent and swollen, no longer able to jigsaw

together. I’ve never been this way before in a car.

I don’t know

if I can come this way again, now.

Now that I’ve been brought, less than willing.

Now that I’m hollering past hills and harrowing my heart

like an avocado crushed for toast.

I can’t feel my toes anymore,

they’ve been coiled and pressed too long,

petals between pages. Unfit for purpose, for pollinating,

but maybe useful for decoration.

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Betsie Flynn (she/her) lives on a council estate in Wales where she grapples with mental health issues, but is lucky enough to see mountains from her bedroom window. Her husband, children, and cats are wonderful. She has been known to tweet @betsieflynn