Witness
The problem with doom-scrolling
is that I can’t stop thinking about walking
by the Wear, my second year at university.
The path was skinned with mud
and as I skirted the boathouse,
I slipped and landed, hard, on one hip.
Tourists lowered their cameras, murmured
to each other, a family slowed their children,
and the cathedral’s golden shadow loomed
across the river, but no hands were offered,
no words of concern. The world flowed on around
the dazed rock of my body, timid steps grateful
for the warning. I scrambled to my feet, soiled,
stinging, a mirror of embarrassment as I shrunk
through the crowd to the café on the bridge.
I cleaned myself up with toilet tissue,
pressed carefully at my aching thigh,
greying like the first sign of rain.
Afterwards, I looked at people differently.
Curving over my cup, I lifted it with care,
took small bites of cake, terrified
that if I spilled coffee in my lap, or choked
on a crumb, no one would move, but simply
watch as I destroyed myself.
Bex Hainsworth is a poet and teacher based in Leicester, UK. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Atrium, The McNeese Review, Sonora Review, Nimrod, and trampset. Walrussey, her debut pamphlet of ecopoetry, is published by Black Cat Poetry Press.