An Ode to Fleabag
She came onto my screen
A flurry of limbs and awkward sex
A navy coated, red lipped nymph.
The sister, the best friend.
The lost
The broken
The f r a g m e n t e d
We are all her
And
I really want to steal a gold headless statue someday.
Lungs
Hearts smashed into walls
A flurry of glitter spread across the floor
Stardust suspended in mid air as you drift around us
Not drift,
float.
An ethereal renaissance fairy witch
You spin like the plates you sing of
Before they are smashed above heads
And then, stillness.
Like the rusty red lungs you cling to
Amidst chiffon and flower petals.
Golden
Definition; bright, metallic or lustrous
Like the mane of Serena Van Der Woodsen in the 2008 drama Gossip Girl
Or the light that emulates off the songbird Florence Welch.
Like glittery champagne bubbles, suspended in pearlescent glass
That a golden curled friend pours
As the sun creates ethereal silhouettes
And diamond jewels on the water’s surface.
When we are golden, all is right.
We are shining.
I want that forever.
Sophie is an aspiring essayist from Auckland, New Zealand. When she isn’t writing, she can be found reading multiple books at once or re-watching Fleabag for the umpteenth time. She also writes the blog, Nana Wintour.
