Sad Angel

Like I totally understand that. I’m English and South African. In South Africa I can eat so much better but in this NASTY f*ck*ng place (England) I’d genuinely have no problem with going back to an0r3x1a because there’s literally no reason to eat, I mean why would I fill myself with calories if the food tastes nauseating to even chew on.

By twilight it gets quiet.

I turn the radio up to kill the static and hug a pillow into my chest.

Tightening my grip over it and tugging at the sides.

I pray for the courage to get up; but faith dimmers.

Thirty seconds go by.

I see flashes of mountain’s and hear petty car ride squabbling.

My pillow transforms into a purple unicorn stuffed toy held tightly under my arm.

I feel myself sat in an alleyway once again with the taste of vodka in my virgin mouth.

I daydream of my spouse once again as i chew on blocks of chocolate, thinking of that man with the child in his eyes.

Once, when i saw authenticity in you, we’d lay together after school and play video games.

Within the blink of an eye i find myself following a green light, thinking of you. The both of you.

Bang.

My chest caves.

My eyes weeping.

Distorted laughter takes away the sound of my breath.

as the laughter goes on, the louder it gets. And my wrists weaken and drip.

I hope that by the time its over i wont even know it started.

pittifully, the only words that can come to mind are,

"i’m sorry".