August - It was a rainy night.
The moon was full.
The sky was darker than my mind.
The trees were swaying smoothly side to side. The dreary sidewalk glistened with puddles of raindrops, dripping and dropping from the gloomy clouds. Vivid umbrellas hopped along the streets, with the young people hiding under them, holding them tight. It was like a night scene painted effortlessly. The lively houses stood languid. Lights were unopened and people were lying in their dreams. On the other side, I was running. I was running away from my life, from the head I called my own for 17 years plus 5 months, 6 hours, 3 minutes and 9 seconds. I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t understand it. I hoped for the best yeah- But I got the worst. I’d reach for the sky, but I’d fall to the fires of hell. I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t my fault that he left her. It wasn’t. It was my fault. I caused it. I didn’t do it. I don’t know. It wasn’t my fault...was it?
That woman thought so. Her meaningless muffled voice screamed obscenities at me. Those grimy, grubby words drifted through the cold, calm air. I let them because I ignored them. I kept things to myself; secrets. Those secrets swarmed my senses like fat yout would swarm vanilla cakes. I’d just go into a shady space in my mind to create a heavenly tale of glee. I never wanted to say what I felt. She’d just get mouthy, talking until sunrise and beyond. She’d probably fight me too. Besides, it was just like every other day since I was 7 yeah, when she’d growl at me like a jaguar for more time than the day had. She would always make my heart beat melancholy rhythms. She was a sinister sinner, a Christian woman with 5 crosses and 8 bibles. She ceaselessly talked to me with her eyes, those brown circles of fury. They followed me wherever I went. They cursed me. Her lips were too busy slapping each other, affronting me with anger. My African-British mum’s eyes devoured my hazel ones with hatred every time, yeah.
She was still talking to me after my life had passed. I was sitting on the window sill with my long legs bent. Pill bottles and medicine tablets were lying on the woolly carpet beneath me - hers. The heater below me wasn’t working. My socks had holes in them. So did my soul. I was shivering cold even with a blanket wrapped around me. My black hair was as frigid as my hands, get me? I was gazing at the waxen window, while vivid leaves swept slowly across the glass.
The moon was full.
The sky was darker than my mind.
The trees were swaying smoothly side to side. The dreary sidewalk glistened with puddles of raindrops, dripping and dropping from the gloomy clouds. Vivid umbrellas hopped along the streets, with the young people hiding under them, holding them tight. It was like a night scene painted effortlessly. The lively houses stood languid. Lights were unopened and people were lying in their dreams. On the other side, I was running. I was running away from my life, from the head I called my own for 17 years plus 5 months, 6 hours, 3 minutes and 9 seconds. I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t understand it. I hoped for the best yeah- But I got the worst. I’d reach for the sky, but I’d fall to the fires of hell. I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t my fault that he left her. It wasn’t. It was my fault. I caused it. I didn’t do it. I don’t know. It wasn’t my fault...was it?
That woman thought so. Her meaningless muffled voice screamed obscenities at me. Those grimy, grubby words drifted through the cold, calm air. I let them because I ignored them. I kept things to myself; secrets. Those secrets swarmed my senses like fat yout would swarm vanilla cakes. I’d just go into a shady space in my mind to create a heavenly tale of glee. I never wanted to say what I felt. She’d just get mouthy, talking until sunrise and beyond. She’d probably fight me too. Besides, it was just like every other day since I was 7 yeah, when she’d growl at me like a jaguar for more time than the day had. She would always make my heart beat melancholy rhythms. She was a sinister sinner, a Christian woman with 5 crosses and 8 bibles. She ceaselessly talked to me with her eyes, those brown circles of fury. They followed me wherever I went. They cursed me. Her lips were too busy slapping each other, affronting me with anger. My African-British mum’s eyes devoured my hazel ones with hatred every time, yeah.
She was still talking to me after my life had passed. I was sitting on the window sill with my long legs bent. Pill bottles and medicine tablets were lying on the woolly carpet beneath me - hers. The heater below me wasn’t working. My socks had holes in them. So did my soul. I was shivering cold even with a blanket wrapped around me. My black hair was as frigid as my hands, get me? I was gazing at the waxen window, while vivid leaves swept slowly across the glass.
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