to j.a.r

I can still see where you bit me. Just.

You wouldn't know that's what it was unless you'd been told.

A small oblique, a little diamond.

I told people that it was an insect bite. (weak)

Or where I'd been play fighting with the boys. (believable under the circumstances)

I called it a UDI and blamed it on a good night.

It hurts me to look at it.

But like a wobbly tooth, I keep checking for it, toying with it, immersing myself in the pain.

There were scratches too.
On my belly, my side, my thighs.

With your nails you mapped my topography and left me red raw.

I didn't think it was going to be nothing.

I didn't think it was going to be random.

I don't let randoms do things that 'touch' me.
I don't let randoms mark me.

If it had just been random sex, well it wouldn't have happened- what do I want with random sex? But if it had been, I don't think I would feel this bad.

I didn't want to begin 'something serious', I'm in no position for that.
And I realise that it's not advisable to sleep with people who you want to be friends with, but I did think we would be friends.
It's a bad habit of mine, the misdirection of emotions into physical love.

I thought you understood. We had talked.

You know things about me that I keep close,

you told me secrets that scared me.

I felt something,

I thought you did to.

And that's why even though there was no penetration,

well not that kind of penetration,

I feel more used than if you had forced me.

I find manipulation so much more painful than violence.

New Improved Cat-In-A-Box!
coming soon to a cardboard box near you

journey

As the train moves south the light seems to brighten in contrast to the darkening of the sky. Clouds like huge islands, grey purple and surly.
Trees livid green in the golden light, jewels against the bruised skin of the sky.
The feeling of foreboding grows in the pit of my stomach, London is like a drug;
as soon as I inhale it I will forget everything else.
I will surely forget this beauty exists.

delay

The London train is delayed by half an hour.
I'm sitting on the platform; down on the tarmac, shoes off, cardigan slipped down round my shoulders. The sun is at my back, shadows at my feet of my toes and the pages of my novel blowing in the wind. The wind smells like a south easterly, not quite as familiar as the sou' westerly, up over the moors bringing the taste of the sea, but still pleasant. Blustering my hair about my face, bringing me the sound of collar doves and children playing.
Perhaps I don't mind the delay after all.