Perry Wyatt
Paper Mouth
Paper head was made of newspapers and glue,
Easy enough to sculpt and wear,
The sun made it hard.
I chittered; its face was hideous.
Born ready.
It couldn’t do much,
Only talk and blink,
Humour was lost on it,
It liked to smile though,
Like it understood,
The perfect woman,
if it weren’t for the face.
It wanted to walk.
So, I made the bones
From an old dictionary,
Lungs from a Bible,
Tongue my old bookmark,
But that wasn’t enough.
She needed to live – she told me.
The soul was stolen from a prophet,
And the self-hatred from a poet,
I looked at it – she smiled back.
Her happiness was infectious,
Her temper infallible.
She met the rain with a grin,
As it washed her away.
Skin Deep
Veins bleed easily when they are close to the surface.
I etch upon them – because I like how it hurts.
Hide my grim inheritance.
‘What will they think when you’re older?’
A bold assumption I will get that far.
Perry Wyatt is a writer from Cardiff, Wales, with a love for all things strange and magical. She achieved a BA in English from the University of Exeter and a Masters in Creative Writing from Swansea University. She is a true jack-of-all-trades wordsmith with screenwriting, journalism, and two novels under her belt. Poetry is her most recent adventure and has been shared in Gaia Lit, Fahmidan Journal, and Moss Puppy Mag.