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i have a blister on my finger, because i spent all night writing my life story. all my darkest secrets, vomited onto paper in smudgy black ink. if secrets were a disease, i'd be a terminal case.

did you know? secrets taste like coal.

i can't stand it anymore. i can't stand walking out of my front door to dozens, hundreds, thousands of birds taking flight, cawing frantically, their wings startingly black against the wide white sky. the whole sky is just a blank canvas, and only the birds can pierce through it. the rest of us are damned in our winglessness.

i'm so jealous of them that when i hear the flutter of hollow-boned wings i taste enough hatred in my mouth to suffocate the world. if you've ever sucked on the end of a pen until ink explodes acridly on your tongue you'll know what hatred tastes like.

i watch them getting smaller and smaller until they're just floating black pinheads and think, take me with you, take me with you. sometimes i shout it aloud and people stare at me in the street. the birds never come back for me.

the colour blue does not exist. when the sky looks blue that's just the reflection from the sea, you fucking idiots.

i saw a dirty white feather lying in the road and broke down in tears with two words perched abrasively on my lips.

forgive me.