It’s worse because she looks right at me and says ‘I can’t see you anymore,’ with an anvil weight that would be comedic in a cartoon scenario. Little pressures build at unused points within me, acute punctures that target and release specific amorphous emotions. All I can muster is a lacklustre why? From inside emancipation she tells me, ‘I don’t own you, I don’t want to, but the need is overwhelming. Knowing you exhausts me in a way I can’t commit to anymore.’ I tell myself that I should cry but I don’t even have the moxie to submit.
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.