Jo runs his hand down the side of my chest. ‘Your ribcage is gorgeous,’ he says, laughing once without opening his mouth so the sound issues from inside his skull. ‘I bet your skeleton is lovely. I wish I could see it.’ Okay, I tell him, pushing his hand away, we’re done. I swing my legs off the bed, letting the momentum help me up. He sounds surprised when I look for my clothes. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ It all feels too morbid, but apparently not. ‘It would be weird if I only wanted to see part of you.’
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.