Young Writers Society

You walked in with your arm

still in that milk chocolate sling

and the stitches ripped out of your thumb

like the bindings of the calender

have been ripped out now.



And he asked you the question that was

throbbing in my mind but that I was

too nervous to ask.



So you answered in the affirmative like the

cool, purple aches and pains of rain

which sprawled across the roads outside.

I could feel my bare lips stretching

into a smile and you half-smiled back,

doing what I always do and only

smiling because you saw one opposite you.



I'm so feigned.

But that didn't matter for the moment

because the greasy beads of happiness

were forming on the insides of my eyelids.



Yet maybe because I let his ash-tray

words sink into my milk skin (I promised I

never would let that happen but I shatter

promises like your glass jar), your

news didn't click into place inside my heart

and rectify my insides like I hoped it would.



I pick apart my skin because I let it rip me

up inside and blew it to a massive 

size with all my tears.

It never needed to take up such a slab of my mind.



Still, the rain showed the wrinkles on the

road while I was waiting for the bus

and making small-talk with a flesh-and-bone barbie,

and I realised I could coat my nails in the 

glittering water and cry and crawl under the Eiffel Tower.

written: Tuesday 17th August 2004, 8:19pm.