Coiled so deeply in the beds of our misfortunate teenage lives as depression hangs from dark grey skies and I just want you to be alright. And I know you’re just looking for a high that can make you forget the need to jump from your bedroom window on the fourth floor just so you can hear the crack in your bones when they successfully split into two against the concrete as rose red fills up the gaps in the sidewalk.

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The Boy With Bruises|A Short Story

They were sat outside a club watching the snow, hands buried deep inside pockets of jackets that weren’t nearly as warm as they needed them to be. Flushed cheeks and lips bitten down to flesh was what Dan saw when he looked to his right. The boy was shoving an unlit cigarette into his mouth a cancerous stick of smoke that always made Dan cough like his lungs were on their way out of his throat.

He caught Dan staring and smiled a half-smile gesturing for him to try.

Dan just shook his head and said, “I don’t smoke.”

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The Little Boy


I remember once I watched a movie, wait..or was it a TV show, let’s just pretend it was a movie. And in this movie there was a kid, about seven or eight years old. His skin was rosy-pale, swollen lips, he would bite them whenever he got nervous or anxious. His hair twisted in prominent curls a shade of caramel blonde to be exact. And his eyes, his eyes were blue, a deep shade of calming blue, people would say, but to me they just held worry, I would see ounces of worry locked within the sea blue orbs. When I looked into them they wouldn’t remind me of the sky when it’s clear, no they made me feel pity. And they made me feel sympathy.
His cheeks were always flushed because of the cold, they lived in Alaska a family of three. You would think they were happy but they were far from that, the boy never got to hold his mother’s hand because it was always accompanied by a cigarette or two. His father he wasn’t a drunk, he wasn’t a stoner either, he was just born a complete asshole with no actual reason to be a shitty parent.

But when I watched this movie the thing I lost myself most in wasn’t the boys story, it wasn’t the boys appearance or his struggle, it was the moments that he would stare into space and then not come back for hours, he would get disoriented without even moving. In those moments I’d like to think that the boy would’ve found himself falling through the cracks inside his brain until he came across a safe place. A place to land. A world or a universe he had built for himself, where his imagination was the ruler and he would ride fire-breathing dragons at absurd heights, but he would never be scared. He had built this world where fear did not exist.

He would also not be alone in this world, no he would never be alone. He would have friends, dozens of them and they would be elf’s in costumes, he would go on adventures with these elfs and he would do anything to stop himself from being pulled into reality. He hated it there. No one would hug him, no one would hold his hand. He had no friends and there were no fire-breathing dragons to carry him for miles in the air.
There were no talented elf’s who played guitar or cooked meals on the campfire. However there was loneliness in this world, there was fear a ridiculous amount of fear that would never let him sleep. And there was pain, a type of pain he didn’t understand yet. Because he felt it but then he didn’t, because an aspirin wouldn’t kill it, it wasn’t the type of pain you would feel when you hurt yourself because you’re clumsy, no its the pain that you feel when the world hurts you, over and over. It wrenches you heart and twist your mind until you can no longer believe. Until the cracks in your brain that lead you to your world get clogged by the actions or words of others. And soon you stop seeing elfs and mermaids and dragons. Your imagination dies, so does a piece of you deep inside.

I’d like to think the boy never got hurt, he was safe. But that’s not the reality, it’s just my imagination, I wonder how it’s still alive, after so much time spent living a shitty life.-H

A Home..

​You were given an old dusty room to call yours, it was nowhere near a home, but you made it better. Applying a floral wallpaper, with pink radiating off of the walls, you brought color into what was once monochrome. Then you hung little lights upon the walls, made everything seem bright. You grabbed your worn-out apron and a few old brushes, you stood high up on a ladder borrowed from the neighbours, you painted a sky filled with an abundance of stars hoping they would light everything up when it was one of those sleepless again, staring ceiling would be easier this time. 
You bought white daisies from the flowershop down the road, he gave you a discount when he saw your shirt losing its shape and ripping at the edges, the dark circles around your eyes and your shoes begging to be thrown away anytime.  You placed them in a vase cracked in the centre, your hands would stick to it because of the cheap glue you applied to keep its pieces into place.

On the way home you bought yourself a chocolate bar, a Kitkat to be exact, it was your reward for turning that dump into a home, a place that you could finally call yours, unlike everything else in this world that just seemed like it wasn’t made for you, or maybe you weren’t made for it. 

All the expensive cars and houses the emported cereals and oat bars they ate, the mansions the live in, sitting on their arses all day watching the world revolve around them, they were kings sat on their thrones, little did they know those very thrones were placed upon the backs of the poor. 

They say poverty is a disease, I say being rich is even worse, it’s like cancer only worse that you don’t lose anything, like your hair you just gain and gain, you save and you spent, and in no time you find yourself rotting six feet under the ground, who knows maybe the grave beside you is hers, who spent her life building a a home, while you built a castle with the click of your fingers.
A single daisy lies upon her grave, while yours is empty, just like the use of the numbers you saved in your bank account, is it fun, I heard that amazon doesn’t deliver underground.-H

A Writer.


I remember the first time I read something you had written, I was blown out of my mind, I was inspired and I told you that you were the best writer I had ever met. You smiled and said ” it’s because I’m the only writer you’ve ever met”. I didn’t understand at the time why you would never accept my compliments that came from heart. I never understood why you would never publish the beautiful poetry you kept stacked inside your “not worthy drawer”, I thought it was amazing, but for some reason you didn’t.
I never understood why you were always gazing outside when I was talking to you, why it seemed like something was always on your mind. I just used to brush it off and say maybe it was because you were an extremely observant person.
But the day you left, I wrote my first piece, it was short and full of flaws, but at least it was something. I realised why you never accepted compliments because you thought you didn’t deserve them, you never really put a lot of effort into the writing you just held the pen and let the ink do its work, it came easily in flashes and you wrote it down, you didn’t think it was good enough.
Whenever you gave me something you had written it was always about the sky, the stars, the sun, the moon and everything around us, I admired your work but it hurt that you never wrote about me, I wanted you to write me poetry full of promises and other cheesy romantic shit. But now I realise that you were a writer, you had seen the world differently, paid attention to every detail, you were not only a writer you were a dreamer, you knew that your dreams weren’t mine and we couldn’t be together forever, so you never made promises you couldn’t keep, you never gave me false hope, or wrote about my eyes, my hair, the way I made you feel because you knew that the day you left, those words would be all I would have, you knew how strong words are, the impact they would have, you knew I would think that all you had written was a lie and that you were just simply caught up in the moment, so you kept me at arm’s length, always at reach but never too close.
Now I understand that you were so afraid of hurting me, you hurt yourself in the process of saving me.
And today, I am just like you, people wonder why I never accept their compliments, why I never get too close to them, it simply because I am a writer, a dreamer, restless, I’m lost, looking for my missing pieces. And they seem to be scattered all over the world -H

I Remember |A Short Story


Tonight I’m alone as I stumble home, you’re fast asleep, so peacefully, you look as if you’re in the deepest dream, I dare not wake you. As I make it to the guest room and fling myself into the shelter of my mattress, I think of you how beautiful you looked under the glow of the fairy lights hung above the bed, you looked so tiny, your body delicate and frail.
I wonder where I would’ve been if it weren’t for that night on the train station, as the trains flew by, I stood there breathing the cold December air one last time as I raised one foot to jump, but from the corner of my eye I saw a wave of blonde hair, a pretty blue dress, and copper brown eyes, my heart melted my legs turned to jelly as you approached me, asking for directions, my mind was going around in circles, the strong aroma that followed you everywhere you went, you smelled like sunshine and strawberries, when you spoke your voice, so calm it made me forget why I stood on the edge in the first place, why I was going to give up so early. You were like an angel, you stayed by me, you held me when no one else did, I opened up to you and I learned that it’s okay to make mistakes, you soon told me that you were just as messed up as me, and we fought together.
I remember going to Paris and taking you to the Eiffel Tower, getting down on one knee was the bravest thing I’ve ever done in my life, fear so purely visible in my eyes, you said yes and I took you in my arms we both started to cry but for once in my life they were tears of joy. -H

The Truth |A Short Story


When she met him he had the brightest smile, his touch was so gentle and soft, his voice as he sang to her a quiet lullaby every night made her forget who she was and float into the dream world without fright. She was falling hopelessly, drifting aimlessly. She tried and tried but his charm took her over, the way his feet moved with the beat as they danced, the way he held her made her take a chance.
Now she let go and left the past behind, she was a hopeless romantic putting up a fight, that’s what they said right? “Do whatever it takes to make him mine.”
As the days passed his smile turned into a frown, his eyes were now darker his hair unkempt fell in his face, but he didn’t care. He never took her out anymore, the sounds of laughter in the house died down and the sounds of sobbing and his favourite vase being smashed against the walls were now floating in the air.

They wouldn’t talk anymore, they couldn’t. He would bring home a new girl every night just to forget the one who would make him lose the sense of time. She would get high and drink till the pain reached numbness, just to forget the words he had said the day she gave him her heart, which now barely had the motivation to beat, she was tired, worn out, so before she let the last of the bottle of pills sink in, she asked “is this what love means?” “Is this what they felt in the movies?” That’s when she closed her eyes for the last time. -H