The red paper fish, hanging from my ceiling,

Mean luck where they come from.

Or joy. Anything, really.

Whatever you can squeeze into the colour red. And a fish.

For me, they used to mean adventure.

Exotic, far-off places.

Now they’re just a test;

See who notices them,

And who walks blindly on and hits their head.

Things change.

Once, I was content with the way it was.

Now I’m hunting down the scent of vanilla,

Because it’s the only thing I ever trusted in,

And I need something to hold me safe.

I didn’t used to see through it all.

There were days I was always walking into paper fish,

But for now I can see where they are.

I’ll dodge around them, clinging to a jumper which wafts vanilla.

I can see them now. I can see the red.