Poetry by Holly Conant

                 emilykneeter CC




​Bookies

My dad would drive to the car park on a Saturday morning, me in the back seat, the same routine. I’ll just be ten minutes he would say, lock the door to keep me safe. I’d unbuckle my seatbelt and lie down so no-one could see me, then I’d start my game. Close my eyes, touch my right thumb and middle finger together, count the times they touched. 10, 100, 200, 500, 1000. Then the left hand, to make it even. 10, 100, 200, 500, 1000. Extra if one felt more touched than the other, because the amount of times doesn’t always account for pressure. Then I’d scrunch my toes up. 10, 100, 200, 500. Then the other foot. 10, 100, 200, 500. Then I’d touch my knees together, being careful to hit the same spot every time, like pendulums kissing. 10, 50, 100, 200, 300. Then I’d sing whilst digging into the borders of my nails, 10 on each side of each finger, and another 10, and another, until the skin broke.





The Interview

The room had a mirrored wall. I felt like I was in The Bill. I knew what was happening. There was a desk, two men in suits, one older and one younger, and my guardian. The men asked me questions. I didn’t answer like I was meant to, didn’t remember the words from last night and this morning. Both of them were struggling. The older one was tired of it all, again. The younger one had never watched a child disappear before his eyes, into crack dens and smack houses. He was too nervous to grab me, but the older one had my hand in his over the precipice and didn't want to let go. He was holding us all. He says why did you bring your doll with you today? I knew the answer. I’d already been told the answer. God, it was hot in there. To play with I said. His face let go of my hand. The interview was over. They all shook hands, shared apologies. The older one did not quit; I suppose it was copper’s instinct. He handed me a card while everyone was distracted, told me to keep it safe and call anytime, showed me numbers for his office, the number for when he was on holiday. He did not realise that I was too short to reach a phone. Time to go home now my guardian said, took the hand that couldn’t be saved in her hand. The hand. He watched me go, as I walked out the station with my abuser.





​Seeds of Psychosis

1
Bang. The plates of my memory
fused together like magnets 
that created a field of dynamite, 
blowing a chasm through
my life. 

2
I’m sick in the head
but I can’t tell my dad, 
my nan, my sister,
a teacher, a doctor, 
or friend. 

3
There’s a train leaving at 9.30am 
two years from now. 
I board it with all of my baggage
tucked into my
neat frame. 

4
I live in an attic and they wonder
why the bolts are coming
loose, my wheels whirring 
whirring spinning 
the thread of a tarantula, 
collecting it all on a spool
for an old woman
I used to know.

5
And the thread has grown a head
and it’s so fucking hungry for sanity
that it stabs it with its incisors
and swallows it whole, 
a little mouse, 
clogs and all. 

6
Twinkle, twinkle, I’m a star.
Cover the mirror;
My light is blinding.

7
We’re going in a neenaw, 
me and my seven who 
won’t stop yammering, 
incessant yammering,
yammer yammer yammer yammer 
shut up 
yammer yammer yammer yammer 
die. 

8
I don’t need a liver transplant.
But my head, 
they say
there’s something wrong there.


​

Holly is a new writer and mature student, currently studying at the University of Leeds. She has recently featured on Ink, Sweat & Tears, and has a number of other poems published, and awaiting publication, this year.

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