It's 1am, the house is silent. The dog sleeps beside me, breathing softly. The light hurts my eyes so I'm sitting with a candle, lighting my roll-ups on the meagre flame.
I wish I could be honest. The words pile up and threaten to smother me, sad words shot through with violence and small miracles. Telling the truth is brave and I'm a fucking coward. My arms are a public record of self-abuse and my words are buried in locked books with torn-out pages.
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