Grace Ellis
Caw Caw Motherfucker
I am so sorry that you love me
because I am
a seagull—
I ate your last chip
all I do is swoop in, regardless of how hungry you are I just won’t believe you are hungrier than me
how was I supposed to know that you were so attached to your finger? In particular, that finger, the one by your left pinkie which I nipped at (ever so slightly) as I nicked that last, cold-stale chip
once, I shat on your shoulder. We both just stood there, staring, in complete disbelief, as it trickled down the sleeve of your favourite sea-blue jumper
I am such a disgusting thing; didn’t even apologise just flew away—
when god gave me a wide wingspan and the bad reputation of a caw caw motherfucker, he never expected that I would be needing any
self-preservation
I am a lonely echo which only the wireless can hear, just like the faulty old WiFi machine in your grandma’s cupboard; it extends a hand . . . rejected . . . flashing red.
Your grandma wants you to fix this, believes in you simply because of the soft downy feathers of youth, simply because she can’t find the instruction booklet
well, fuck you grandma
I am just a seagull, what the hell do I know about the intimate internet communications set down in ink?
despite making myself unlovable, I still cling to fledgling hope
I want you to want me, like I want you to really want me. Dig your talons in. Run your tongue along the ragged edge of my beak. Go hot under the collar when you meet with my yellow beady eyes, like marbles on fire. Get turned on by my orange webbed feet.
All I want is to be wanted; I don’t even care if the wanting is only feather-deep.
I am only beautiful through the narrow side of a telescope, and that is why I haunt these cold coastal spaces. But, to tell you the truth—like all good chicks—I wanted to be a swan when I was young. My neck just wasn’t long enough
once, I shat on your shoulder, didn’t offer to clean the unwanted clouds from the sky-wool sleeve, and then I shoved a nail in deep to Styrofoam coffins
seagulls mate for life, and I really can’t take the risk but, yeah sure I’ll take a chip.
Grace Ellis is a poet born and raised in Yorkshire, who has previously been published in The Gentian Journal.