Golden light spills into our palms and too often overflows- amber rays waterfall and everything transcends. The sky is fragrant like a melon. You ignore me and I scowl at you. You have flicked me into a flame that cannot be extinguished.

Do not be surprised if you get burnt.


I tell you I love you and you laugh. I think my heart is breaking but instinct tells me it broke a long time ago. Everything snapped in two when I realised how I felt about you. How far gone I was- spiralling down down down into the depths of desire. Black pits Satan himself would tremble to enter.

I tell you I love you and I am a fool because I expect that to mean something.


I still can’t breathe. You are leaving me and my breath is gone. My throat tightens like a boa constrictor is wrapping itself about my neck and squeezing me until loss bleeds out in silvery chains. Oh I cannot forgive you. Fettered to you, my heart pulls away from my rib-cage as the tide runs from the shore each night, to follow the moon.

I hear your laugh when I roll over in bed at night: it chills me.


Street lamps hang suspended in the blue dawn and they look like stars. Puddles of oil-spill dripping down and bleeding into the sky. I try to catch a ball of light, but just like you, it falls through my fingers and escapes from me.

I tremble at nothing; I am scared of what you are doing to me.


The trees are black and my wounds are bloody. You are gone and I don't care anymore. I thought I could try to be happy and I think I once was. But nothing lasts forever and I am sick of pretending to be whole when I am broken. I chase down a star and catch her- she shines so bright she blinds me.

Victory is cold and my winnings turn to dust at daybreak.


It is colder than it was in December and the only way I can equate time passing is with how days stretch before me, long and gloomy, like shadows. Time yawns ahead beckoning me to follow but I do not wish to trace its footprints when I want to go no further.

They ask me if I am happy; I cannot answer them because I do not know what that is.


The light reinfects the darkness like some kind of odorous reawakening. The whole universe seems to be telling me to let you go. I find I have a much tighter grip than I thought and so I continue to hold onto the idea of you. The trouble with this is that ideas are like light bulbs; they don't go out unless you flick them off. All the blood in my body is supplying energy to keep you alive inside of me.

All the oxygen I inhale becomes electricity.


I thought I would die before summer came but obviously I was wrong to equate you with the sun because she shines for me in your absence. I am silly to call it an “absence” when this sojourn of yours will be perpetual.

I wonder when I shall understand you are not coming back for me.


I drive my fingernails into my palms and draw blood. I turn seventeen and think of all the birthdays I shall have without you. I wonder if, over time, my accumulation of these ages will be a means of replacing you. I finally admit to myself I have a hole in my heart.

I am tired of trying to patch it.


They tell me I look happier and I don't know what that means. Maybe the mask I have been wearing for so long is finally beginning to meld into my features. I look into the mirror and smile.

To me, it still looks like a frown.


The world is ablaze around me and yet my heart is cold. I place a hand over my chest and listen for a beating- all I can hear is a moan. I think about the way you used to look at me and experience a kind of fire running along my bones. My anger soon quenches any sentimentality I might feel. If piecing myself back together means tearing you apart then I will do it. Over and over.

I will do it until I am whole again.


My walls sweat in this heat and leave blue stains on my forehead. I pace pavements at dusk and catch your reflection in shop windows. You never returned for me, but a girl can dream, and I've locked you away in a jar. One day, perhaps, I'll twist off the lid and every memory I have of you will shoot up into the air like a firework. I will feel all those things I once felt when you looked at me.

I will wonder what you are doing now.


A year has passed. Time tracing circles around my thumb. Another September has come and I am here and you are not. I realise what I should have known all along. I wanted to find happiness but she could not be found: what I was looking for did not exist. I thought she had taken your shape but she had not taken anything from you. God made you true to your nature and built you bitter. I had thought I could find peace of mind in another's, but you were the bullet, not the bandage.

I suppose I was naive to think I could be happy. I suppose I was naive to think happiness was something tangible I could reach out for and hold.

What was last year to me?

It was twelve months deluding myself I could find happiness.

It was the last time I gave a damn.