A hand print left on the steamed up glass door of my shower. It stayed just for a moment, and then quickly filled up until you couldn’t see it anymore. But it stayed there, just like the pain.
You break me
and get angry when you
cut yourself on the shards.
A bench, wooden and rickety and always breaking as we pretend it’s a ship, a car, just a bench. My childhood was spent on this bench, it started off as a barrier; ‘don’t go past the benches’ my mother would say, to stop me from wandering too far out of sight. It then was a base for 1,2,3 relivo, it was where we sat to make daisy chains on the green grass, or where we would all pretend wrestle using the bench as an arena. This bench was where I was care free, where I laughed with my friends, with my family, and reality was not a concept I understood.