You think I am a half-empty bag of sweets
Never enough to share
I am a gift hamper
Bursting to the brim with goods
You think I am a well-worn pair of shoes
Scuffed, but comfortable and familiar
I am a brand new pair of heels
Tight and pinching, with the label still on
You think I am a well-wrapped present
Tidy and pretty, with all the edges tucked in
I am a scrunched up piece of newspaper
Ripped and holding only broken eggshells
You think I am a colourful painting
Alluring shades drawing attention
I am a long forgotten Latin textbook
Collecting dust instead of dog-eared pages
You think I am a spacious concert hall
Full of disorientating echoes
I am a jam-packed broom cupboard
With clutter and cobwebs alike
You think I am a faded t-shirt
Words and pictures washed out
I am a brand new party frock
With frills and laces galore
You think I am a broken-winged bird
Flightless and alone, deemed never to fly
I am a soaring kite in a clear sky
Path obstructed and free to roam
You think I am an ergonomic electric car
New fangled and recommended by all
I am a diesel-guzzling monster truck
Sucking the planet trip by trip
Sasha Rose Cook
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