The world is black, white and grey as I drag my limbs out of bed and thrust myself into the world. Dragging my feet along the footpath, shoulders rounded against the harshness of reality, protecting an organ that is only supposed to pump blood around my body (it seems to do so much more). I wrestle with the concept of my blood and I wonder if he is still in my veins, in the same way his moments are still in the ends of my hair, sometimes I want to cut it off. Sometimes I want tear myself open just to see the colours, or to rid myself of the things he left behind; it depends on the day.
I eat three different kinds of potato in a night or I eat nothing at all, smoking cigarette after cigarette and crushing my knees against my chest and scrubbing my skin until I’m pink and raw. Just to feel something, anything.
Strange boys take me with hunger in their eyes and violence in their fingers. I am thrown between them, unable to feel their hands on my flesh.
One day someone makes a joke and I laugh, I laugh so hard I cackle, and when I go home that night I can see the pink in my grey cheeks and the green in my eyes.
I hear a beautiful piece if music and I dance on my bed, screaming the words until I collapse.
The next morning I see the purple in the flowers on the tree outside my house and I wonder how long they have been there. I wonder when winter became spring and how I missed it.
One night I see your smile through an entire city scape of lights and I wonder how your bottom lip would feel between my teeth.