In which I sing the poorest song

Be proud. Be this. Be that. Be another. Be something or other. Be anything you want to be, as long as it fits in with me.

You’ve got a crooked eye, you say. It’s not crooked, I say. It’s lazy. It simply can’t be bothered. One day it will close up, give up the ghost, put the cat out for good. You’d better use it then, you say. I will, I say. I do, I say. I use it constantly. Blink blink blink, you may well think. And you’d be right. Blink. I regularly peel my right eye open from the insides and let my eyeball drop out onto the mock granite of cheap kitchen surfaces in other people’s houses. Next to the toaster, just behind the silver(f)ish tea canister. I watch it roll, fascinated. I watch it roll, then I position my gaping bloody socket at the end of the counter and wait for it to simply fall back into place with a quietly reassuring … so what sound does an eyeball make when it returns to its cradle? I shall endeavour to find out, through a careful process of elimination.

I have been experimenting with my eyeball for you. Only ever for you. And for them, because I can never leave the vacant, staring hordes out of my strangest equations. Relax. Don’t you worry about a thing. Just you be my princess, and let me be your king.