Zenith

1.

The teacup is spattered with broken roses, a thorn poking out of the chip in its shoulder. My mother raises it to her chapped lips and glances down at the murky liquid inside. Her thoughts are concealed behind Germanium irises, and I wonder if I am in them.

2.

Call-Me-Steve from the flat below is walking. I know this because I see him. I know this because I am spying – a hobby I loved when I was younger and more colourful. My personality has been stunted and blunted, dragged through a millennia and dropped into one I am now quite familiar with. I would have liked to be smiling during the process, but the world’s a little grey.

3.

Footsteps creak in the hallway, and the wilting lampshade cradles a flickering light. A glimpse of a slender form catches ignorant eyes and the metallic noise of a zipper being done up slowly is the one thing that stays sowed into my brain. The noise of footsteps slowly decreases as they make their way downstairs. When the world is spinning, it’s hard to get off.

4.

Distantly, I hear laughter. It pierces my ears and is snap-shotted at its most ugly, contorted angle. My eyes cringe, lips unravelling, and I look out the window again. The sky is scarred with neon streaks of orange and dianthus pink, while the sun lowers, mourning for the stars that She never got to meet.

5.

I dreamed of a house once. A mock-Tudor house with a dark, slanted roof and three floors. I dreamed of stepping inside, scraping the dirt off my old trainers and sitting down at a mahogany table where I’d say Grace – losing my religion? – and clasp hands with two people with friendly faces and shallow souls. Chrysanthemums lined the front garden, and the curtains were drawn.