BY SHOSHANNA BEALE
Some days the only thing that’ll fix me
is chocolate—not just any chocolate
and definitely nothing by Nestle—
I need edible gold to actuate
from the supermarket into my mouth;
I’d hold it close, inhale, eyes dilated
like Gollum, and shove it all in my mouth.
I want to wallow in my chocolate,
piece by piece until I feel overfed,
savouring the final hint of flavour
as I lie unmovable on my bed,
in a mess of wrappers and peeling foil.
Shoshanna Beale in an emerging writer and poet. She lives in Melbourne and works as a freelance writer and editor. You can read more of her work at shannabeale.wordpress.com/blog.