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Colours

Colours

You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Hair black like charcoal, eyes bluer than the sea. Skin warm, russet like sand, softer than cotton. Voice low, calm – a buzz in my head. I loved you. I always would love you. But you didn’t love me. I watched you grow...
The Girl Who Cried

The Girl Who Cried

18. That’s it. That’s the number. That’s how many times I’ve cried myself to sleep this year. I would know, I’ve kept track. It seems morbid, quite depressing, perhaps a little sad – all of the above. 18 out of 365 doesn’t...
The House On Hunter Street

The House On Hunter Street

There is a house on Hunter Street – lot number three – that nobody talks about. They only ignore it. Casually dismiss. There is a house on Hunter Street so out of place, so very rotten and painfully obvious, that to disregard it altogether was the only sensible thing...
Mornings

Mornings

I think about you in the mornings, when the light is grey and the air still dewy. I think about you when I sip my coffee, when it scalds my tongue and I grimace. I think about you when I look across the room at the bare far wall, when I listen to the clock go tick,...