Forever Ago

The day he left, she cried. At four in the morning, crouched fetally underneath the railway bridge, legs tucked under her with her shoes left discarded on the pavement. Welcome to Orange Answerphone, Welcome to Orange Answerphone, Welcome--
Nobody was picking up.
Her head spinning, tears making odd tracks on her powdered cheeks, she stumbled to her feet.
Goodnight, beautiful.
The morning--
like any other but with pints of juice and the tangy potato chips shaped like paws. Some sullen, hopeless indie rock and dirty, dirty feet. Worn-out green jumper with the picture of kittens that she got from Adam. Claw-marks in her foundation and the scuffed white shoes.
Angel
sold herself to the blood lust.
The lackluck.
The bin was overflowing and the unidentified bruises coloured her legs. Wild woman, hair sticking up with last night's pins digging into her head. I love you, I love you, I love you. Degenerate teenage filth and the croons of the guitar.
I have needed help
for so long.
Why tell him, now?
The week after he left, she lay tucked under the covers. The sun fought the blinds, leaving bright stains on the cream walls. Where are you now? Sharing food with strangers. Taking photos with a polaroid. She went to work, left the drink stickers like some modern art experiment. Tall latte for Emma. For Chris, venti mocha no whip. She still felt the small thrill from discarding them. He's writing poetry in the Australian outback. His own scuffed shoes are walking, not in the honest Welsh dirt, where we all walked that last summer together.

We were forever ago.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

your words come out like machine gun bullets