Dear Child

by Romy Hausmann

The air just after it’s rained. The first and last squares of a bar of chocolate, which always taste the best. The aroma of freesias. David Bowie’s Low album. A curry sausage after a long night out. A long night out. The hum of a fat bumblebee. Everything the sun does, whether it’s rising, setting or just shining. A blue sky. A black sky. Any old sky.

Love, it’s like happiness. A very warm feeling that makes you laugh for no real reason, even though nobody’s told a joke.

My body felt like one big bruise under constant pressure.

What remains of an individual when they deny themselves a shit because it’s only half past four? What remains of me?

‘Sometimes there simply isn’t a reason, Jassy. Sometimes two people cross paths in a most unfortunate way and all you can do is accept this and somehow carry on.’

You haven’t got us, not really. It’s your prison, not ours.