Reflections of her image trail down the street, and as she pushes her head out the car window, she’s pretending she’s flying through the heavens like an angel or some shooting star the likes of which we’ll never get to touch. Maybe it’s the pills that do it, or perhaps it’s the sunshine on her olive skin that reminds her of so many afternoons spent playing with her father in the park behind her house when life was nothing more than jelly and ice-cream and the echoes of her laughter rang out long into the slowly shifting night. How many men have filled her up since she came into bloom? How many greedy mouths have tasted her as she desperately sought the freedom and safety of her younger years? As she stretches her arms as far as she can and feels the tingly pinch of invisible fingers around her nipples and toes, she sticks out her tongue and squeals because in this one brief moment, life is good and there’s nothing that follows. In this sequence of sensations that flicker through her divided mind, there’s only the air in her lungs and the wind against her face to remind her of what it is to be human. That song on the radio, it sucks her in and pulls her under, and just like that, her heart explodes, and from it comes colours and butterflies and birds that swoop through the sky guided by her smile that stretches the length of the horizon.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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