mockingbird

Dad turned on music from the

Gruffalo, just because he

knows it calms me down;

he whistles along like a

mockingbird, repeats

the tune as if he’s a

music box

I’m sure it wouldn’t help to

tell him I feel just like the little

ballerina inside-

spinning until I drop.

They wind me up, they do,

think it’s a game as I twirl to

and fro.

but still he whistles along

I can hear him in the backround

of every song I write,

every poem I recite

every word I say

repeating it all until it

means

nothing

and they say imitation

is the most sincere form

of flattery, but I think he

does it just to make me

feel less important

less unique