Miss Scarlett, with a rope, in the library.Post a Comment




I still can't sleep. instead I increase the volume until I can't hear the rain on the roof. because it reminds me of you. and it's dark. and i dance with my eyes closed because that way it doesn't make a difference. then i wake up under wires. and it's okay it's okay it's okay. he's smoking outside and I say I don't try to sleep anymore and i miss being able to concentrate. and he says he wants a tattoo and does it hurt. did it hurt? people are surprising. you told me to stop like I was 8 and you were telling me to stop licking my lips. I wake up and they are swollen. still. you know when I said my favourite thing was the sun shining in strange places you thought I meant more than I said. I didn't. i meant exactly what i said. you shouldn't be so pretentious.Post a Comment




'I want to get married at sea!' She said, and flung her arms wide, as if she were trying to express the enormity of the idea. As if she were trying to encompass the sea itself.
'I see' he said. He handed her a multi-coloured ball of wool. 'What's this for?' She asked. He just shrugged (a jerk of the shoulder and head slightly to the left) and said that he thought she might like it. So she took it, and as she turned to walk away (always turning to go away, always, always, always) he tucked the end into his pocket for safekeeping. So he could always find her.Post a Comment




it’s like space has spread out because all of a sudden you notice there’s a gap between you and everything but it’s full of atoms and you can never touch anything. Did you know that when you walk you’re hovering, because of physics. You never even get to touch the ground. Which is awesome but it’s also kind of lonely.Post a Comment




I wanted to write about those soft sunny winter mornings but everything came out as sharp w's and swollen g's, stumbling words to never get heard.Post a Comment




I wish I could write stories. I only ever seem to come up with sentences. I scribble them on bits of paper, in the margins of my books, on my hand. They are all about the same thing but they don’t quite fit together. And then, when I do write something longer, I re-read it and it seems to only capture half of what I meant it to.Post a Comment