She likes to lie in,

drag herself out of bed with enough time

to apply her face

and weigh out the insides of her skin;

decide how disappointed in herself she should be today,

can she hate-motivate herself enough

to starve for the Love Island figures.

Rush hour traffic grinds her quickly eroding patience,

as does the man who hasn’t texted her back yet

but she’d be lying if she said she hated the game.

She uses the queue to inspect her nails,

readjust the strap of her new Kurt Geiger heels –

“Now, this is what women want.”

Payday tomorrow, might have to go shopping,

there’s a Dyson for £300 in the sale –

bargain, all the better to clean those heated floors.

After work drinks planned,

she can take her new handbag,

best get a lunchtime top-up tan.

Later, drinking white wine spritzer –

“Did you hear why such and such quit?”

“I never liked them anyway, always nice to your face, but then -”

maybe more chance at promotion,

more money, maybe an all inclusive holiday,

get a new Audi, or champagne brunch with the girls.

It’d make for some good Instagram snaps.

Home, to TV and blessed monotony,

she takes a selfie in her lacy vest top,

photoshops the blemishes,


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