Watching myself in the mirror makes me feel like a voyeur and suddenly I want to feel her hurt me. I trace the line of my collarbone with my fingers, drawing her memories on my skin. Here a faded archipelago of bruises like markers on pirate parchment, there the shriveling scratches lingering like crime scene chalk. I press my palm to the reflection of my chest, watching the man there waste my tears. I wish that I could tell him something meaningful, something beautiful and kind. I can’t. I know that later I will restock his sorrow with selfishness.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.