It’s 6:30 am, again, and in all honesty I’ve stayed up past breaking point. I’m not sure there’s a place I can go anymore, a place that I haven’t trashed or burned or cried in. I’d be sorry – again – but I’m not sure it’s entirely all my fault, this time. Leaving is hard but staying put gets harder every day, every second that I wake up to this city. I thought it was the house and then the village that crushed my spirit, but it could be this city. It’s more likely that it’s me, my body and my weary eyes. I thought that if the house crumbled to the ground then I could get myself back up off it, I thought that if I drove away the village would disappear. But I am suffocating. Everyone new, every time I think they’re new, knows somebody old. Does that make sense? It doesn’t. New colleagues know old school friends and I keep running back into my family but I want to leave them behind. Every corner I turn there’s someone who knows the truth, who saw me when I was an orphan and when I drank myself to death. I guess I’m back there again. I opened a new diary and I had no dates to input and no desire to make any, I can’t pencil you in for this year. What have you lost? What keeps you up until 7am, bloodying knuckles and dirtying plates. Check back, check again, like it ever made half a difference after all. Have you ever been less alone or has it always been codeine at 9, 4, 7 o’clock. Who have you been for the last five years? That means you’re back to wanting cigarettes and empty beds. I want a friend to visit and I want somebody to heal my bloody neck, my bloody knees. I’d ask for forgiveness but I don’t know what I’ve done. I don’t know what I keep doing, but will you take me to London? Back and forth, back and forth, hide in your books and pretend you know a thing about anything but self destruction and self indulgence. It’s 6:30 am and it’s the same thing again, again, again.


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