Hannah Matthews is in the final year of her degree in English with Creative Writing.

A hand seized my

throat from behind as I walked

through the subway.

The stench of urine forced bile

to burn my throat.


My back slammed against the cold,

tiled wall; my spine quivered

like a freshly sprung jack-in-the-box.


My mouth bled

drips on the concrete                                         

floor. Head lolling,

I glimpsed a tooth twinkling under

the severity of the fluorescent strip-light.


I often feel, with my tongue, the gap

he created.