MR BLUE BOTTLE
- Jul 10
- 1 min read
By Jasmine Wilda-Wallace
I had a date with a fly this morning.
He kept rubbing his hands together as we shared a bowl of fruit.
I asked him how long he’d been single.
He didn’t answer and disappeared behind the pile.
Rude.
Must’ve been a while.
I picked up a peach and found him riving in its rotten flesh. The mould really bringing out the blue in his eyes.
I drown them both in the pond outside.
My decay too fresh for an Irish goodbye.