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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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