Day 10

This is Day 10's poem, written the morning after the England Algeria match.

A post-mortem of my own death

I woke up this morning
and tried to piece last night together.
I couldn't remember a single thing. I must have done something

really bad this time.
I text every number in my phone
just saying 'I'm so sorry.'

Every person replies saying
'apology not accepted'
including people I've never met

and Dominos. And the BT Helpdesk.
It's like waking up in a police cell
without a memory of the night before

a detective shows CCTV of you in a balaclava
then sends you to your cell and you realise
you better get used to drinking tea from these polystyrene cups.

It's like when I called Holly Emma
and the next day I called Emma Holly
and they phoned each other up and realised what had been going on.

I feel like the time I turned up to non school uniform day
dressed as a Thunderbird
and when I called a teacher dad by mistake.

It's another of those things that means I will wake up at night sweating
put my head in my hands and someone will say What's wrong?
and I won't know where to begin.