I am becoming a person who does her own things. Things that no one else knows. Roller-skating down hills on one foot like a pink flamingo, daring my bones to shatter. Hiding in other people’s gardens, peeking in at the yellow fuzz of their teatimes through half-closed curtains. Scribbled stick-men on skirting boards and earrings stolen and tucked under pillows. I do things alone now, without you. I want to be close and I want to be distant. I push my fingers so far into the soil in the garden that the fleshy webs between them ache. I am seeing how far I can go.
