by Grace Hui

You utter grievances of restrictions
from holding a friend’s child. You keep him
at a safe—safe—distance, laughing
as he chases you.
Home is a bunker detached from reality.

You suffer under a warm, gentle glow;
my sunlight is filtered through glass,
splintered into fragments on my skin.

Your loneliness echoes in open fields,
reverberating from people two metres apart;
mine rings within these walls, clanging
louder, and louder,
and louder,
tightening around me
with each breath of fresh air you take,
your body expanding to occupy the space.

You leave me to watch from the windows
in what you deem
a step removed
from your open fields.

Grace Hui is a University of Cambridge graduate and a disabled Asian immigrant making her home in London. She writes free verse poetry, flash fiction and contemporary fiction novels. In her spare time, Grace coos at dogs, bingewatches TV and makes cards for her friends. She tweets at @gracehuiauthor and you can learn more about her at