S Reeson


You assume a lot
because reasoning does not
require a sound to become real,
only someone else’s rumour
neurodiverse is wrong, assuming
there is meaning to their madness;
if comprehensible, then
obviously a brain is bust
outdated, false ideas of touched:
broken, lost to time
assumption is a noun, referring
to this lie that’s told to keep
your fear properly pronounced
as definition, never as truth


that’s far too much
to ever comprehend.

Blues Explosion

The red’s 
long gone, final hurrah
accompanied by ill-conceived
mass purchase of new underwear
that by its very nature never could

provide lost sanctuary;

anger’s heat cools, refunded,
pain missed, unexpected
consistent stutter, twice success
cold ache within a space to let:

yet he still loves me, words
no longer prompted text. 

explosion never came, expected
somewhere eighteen months
along, not then chest’s darkness
unexpectedly sliced open

gallbladder’s sudden detonation
my truth, each pain deceiving
it was always broken, never
heart alone. 

lost a
truth fully exposed,
different coloured fear, new home
within womb’s view, providing

heat to spasm’s metronome.


Footnotes; more life, note squares combined
recalling dates, soul annotates
fresh edits form, again rewrite
bowed head; shake, slang’s poor quality
not yet repeated equally.
No wall wide enough, each fail
recalled through distilled time, inept
conscience burns each one, recurs
pointless pain, brief beauty blooms
meshed interest nods; cold, distant rooms.

What do you ask, which instance baked
fresh sacrifice, alter maligned, allowing
briefest joyous shaft to manifest
the pleasure’s mine: except, in time
everything hurts, nobody understands.
Performing robot monkey girl
polishing words so hard it hurts,
what mentors heard, present absurd,
haphazard need to hunch, accrued
heart, staggered... utters; is this true?

Typed lack of trust, generic fails
persistent memory prevails, moment
hard done, staid welcome overrun,
rhyme condemns; fool, start again
apply, more care for all of them.
Earnest chapped youthful lips, perhaps
wild baring hips, stretch marks attached
future defined, online hive minds
media’s lost anthem whines
backed to the wall, 

my words 

or none at all.

S Reeson [she/they] is 54 and a multidisciplined artist who has suffered with anxiety since
childhood. In 2019 they were identified as a Historic Trauma survivor, and are currently
pursuing a neurodivergence diagnosis via the NHS. They are married, have two children,
and came out as bisexual during the 2010’s. When not writing, taking pictures or starting
conversations online they can be found running, cycling or lifting increasingly heavy

Flights, Issue Three, December 2021