Charlotte E.E. Griffiths. The Fan.

The Fan

 on nights, i flick the fan onto three and, from the 
 corner of my room, it creaks and rotates its 
 dusty head in a small circle, thin neck too weak to 
 support its tick 
 and it keeps me cool before the storm. 
 i like to think the fan and i have our 
 chill in common but we probably 
 don’t; my dust doesn’t collect or spread as 
 easily but i guess baggage is all the same no 
 matter how you carry it. i carry 
 mine, all forty-nine kilos, and most of it 
 is just old memory but there’s a bit of 
 trauma and a touch of try-all-despite-all in there too 
 and i like to think that all the 
 pointless air floating about in there has lightened up 
 a bit since the pills; i can’t be too sure, 
 but that’s about it. i’m pretty 
 simple when it comes down to leaving 
 or staying and my neck never 
 supported itself much anyway. i 
 light a cigarette beneath the cool air and 
 i drift into the nicotine high of three a.m. 
 morning texts and the delight of a rickety old 
 fan croaking 
 all night long. 
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