The Gummy House

The Gummy House is sticky. The Gummy House is sweet. The Gummy House is everything that I would like to eat.

He ate me. Off the wall. You were so sweet sleeping, I couldn’t wake you. I was hanging onto deliriousness - all the days, the dark, the fucking Circle Line and crowds outside the Natural History Museum. The fucking Natural History Museum where Nolan was.

- In two weeks time I’ll be rubbish, but I’ll call.

Nolan was just one of them. There are many that I keep hanging on to but its not the same here and I should know by now. I tell everyone who goes to Cromwell Road that they’re a traitor. But he isn’t there anymore. He has nothing to do with anything now - nothing, blank, fin. But he lives on my walks through the park to school. Every fucking day. It was different when I first arrived but I’ve overstayed. I’ve got to go, but I’m in the Gummy House. This whole city is the fucking Gummy House and the sick part of me that wants to be prodded and bitten. "Bite it. You have to bite it." That’s from Atonement. I couldn’t read that line allowed in class. Bite it. You have to bite it.

All the day’s clothes were on my body. Too much a hassle to take them off when he wanted to go beneath my black bra that my mother had bought for me. I was the auto-body in his teal kitchen, all parts, no kisses. I had a boyfriend, stop I have a boyfriend.

- Where’s he now sugar?

My pants were undone. My skinny jeans use to be a struggle to get on and off. They were harder with Nolan but I’ve stopped eating again. I don’t want anything from you. Please.

- No.

My back hit the light switch. There was light in the kitchen before he pushed me against the wall again. Light was on, off, on, off. I would have laughed but it was awkward and he was focused. His hand was jammed in and I couldn’t make a sound. You were asleep. I’m sorry, I should have called. But you would have killed him and left me panting. What flavor was teal? Was there ever a teal gummy bear? A tropical mix? His hand was in, his head was down - there was no shelf to grip on the wall. The house was clean, his mother was asleep upstairs. I’d met her. The American amongst the slanted vernacular.

He was a singer. I wanted that art back but what was mixing vocal chords going to do? I cried, he didn’t notice. Which was fine. I wasn’t allowed to make a noise anyway. Girls in brown braids run through fields in gingham dresses but I was in the Gummy House.