It was another dewy morning in June;
the grass outside the apartment block was damp with promise
in the early morning sun
light streamed through the
***** glass of my bathroom window, highlighting my face as I lay stirring on the floor, my limbs bruised and heavy
an empty pill bottle, a couple of escaped tranquillisers, littered the black/grey slate floor
It was cold to the touch, and I
memories came pouring back, before my head had a chance to catch up. My mind racing at the speed of a thousand cheetahs.
last night, my heart had been ripped open, left in ribbons for a child to come and play with. It was bleeding into my chest, I was drowning in my own blood.
I had thought of it.
Ophelia had become something of a role model. A beautiful, tragical, wailing girl who had tied flowers in her hair and skipped off into the lake, pockets heavy with rocks
But no, there would be no ceremony for me, no bittersweet beauty.
The bottle was in my hand, like a grenade, and all I had to do was pull the pin