I used to be here a lot. I used to have people with me. I used to have my brother. I used to have a special thing. I used to be loud. Then, I got quiet. I got too messed up, too lost. I was all over the place. I still am, really. I wanted it to end, wanted everything to be over recently. And it almost was. Almost went out in a blaze of glory. Almost did the impossible. But the only thing worse than a blooming “almost” is your mum finding you in your darkest corner, covered in god knows whose blood mixed with your own, out of your nutter, and trying to find the end. That’s the worst. It’s still the worst. I’m still here, too, and that’s bad itself. “Almost” can kiss my arse right about now.











