A picture of a page from a poetry magazine that reads: Tonight's the Night I spend hours browsing for a dress to wear and wear until they have no choice but to cremate me in it. I am not doing anything Anne Sexton wouldn’t do. I too would immortalise well in monochrome, exposed wrist, a cigarette caught loosely in my hand. I don’t smoke and I don’t see how that’s relevant. I’ve selected flattering underwear and shaved my legs just in case we get into a devastating car accident. You nervous sweat in the passenger seat. It’s true that both of us smiled seductively at the waitress and that either one of us could start accusing the other of infidelity at any moment. I could really lose it – mascara tears, clouded vision, hysterical swerve of the steering wheel across the central reservation. Us pulling in, the engine dying and the airbags unused, is the first time I cry in front of you. Abbie Day
from @magmapoetry.bsky.social #89: Performance