Work for It

by Talia Hibbert

In the morning, nothing has changed; shit is simply brighter in the sunlight.

What are you doing, sulking up there?” What a load of rubbish. I don’t sulk; I brood. Like Batman.

He’s a bit shitty—but just regular, rich-people-shitty, not kick-a-puppy shitty.

I notice that, just like I notice those eyes of his are the deep green of winter firs. I really wish they weren’t. I like green things. He has a dusting of cinnamon freckles across his nose, which is a piss-take, because I like cinnamon too.

“Is a lie a thing we say,” I ask, “or a thing we let people believe?”

For Christ’s sake, Olu, now isn’t the time for emotional exploration. I have sheep to deal with.

I do feel much better now that I’ve carried a farm animal. Sort of… real, earthy, human. Simple. Perhaps I’ll snatch another.

it’s been five days since I last wanted to commit murder. I, for one, call that progress, and my mood vastly improves at the realisation.

Lashing out only spreads poison,

We’ll never know how big we could grow if we stunt ourselves.

There are things you have to reach for with both hands, and fuck the doubts.

I knew I loved plants, but Jesus Christ, hearing him reel off information like that was hot. For a moment, all I can do is stare down at my hands and imagine them on him, making him moan plant specifications in my ear.

It’s no use being a phantom citizen of the present.

“That’s all anyone can do, isn’t it? Try.”

I say for the third time, “I love you.” Three times makes it magic, that’s what my mother taught me.

The good news is that I am feeling far more confident in my ability to stop hating myself: all I have to do, it seems, is let go of everything my parents ever taught me.

How, exactly, does one say, “I assumed you would stop loving me if you found out how depressed and anxious I am,”