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I often imagine my own alternative existence.
her fake enthusiasm is amusing to me.
but does she ever long to be among them? Watching isn’t living, is it?
They have transformed my once-colourful street into fifty shades of grey.
I can tell that her smile is forced because I do the same when I get a birthday or Christmas present I don’t like, so as not to offend. ‘Is everything okay?’
colourful tapestry of other bruises
It’s like room service at a hotel I can’t check out of.
I can tell which books talk about ways to escape because they’re the ones with pages ripped out.
My memories of him didn’t disappear just because he did.
On and on our dance has continued,
The sight of such depravity jars against his home’s domesticity.
I think I’m beginning to prefer the blur because it hurts less.
Despite everything, she and I have built a type of co-dependent relationship, not so much a friendship but an alliance.
burning the candle at both ends.
Had she started splitting herself into two as a way of dealing with the two versions of her dad?
She is the architect of my misery.
let my stained soul fly free.
