I often fantasise about tipping the cabinet forward until the plastic drawers slide out and spill their contents in a wave of plastic. I tell myself they should be recycled or reused. But in the fantasy it all just spills out and keeps on spilling.
Neither of them talk much in the morning. Somehow things are more difficult in the early hours. She feels more fragile, more lost, more oppressed by the narrow confines and the lack of light.
He studies me for a second before facing the road again, his jaw set. My breath is caught in my throat. I clear it, arranging my thoughts. It was just an outburst, a loss of patience: I am safe.
“We can’t take it all,” her brother had said, tossing memories in a bin bag like kittens for drowning.
I am 12 years old, looking over the precast-cement fence of my neighbour’s house in Chatsworth, South Africa.
The party is winding down and it’s time to make your exit. You stand in the living room mentally preparing for the torrent of goodbyes you’re now socially obligated to initiate. It is Christmas Eve.
A sprinkling of much needed rain has fallen overnight, and some of the roses have left broken mosaics of red and yellow petals on Dad’s newly cut lawn. Ideal conditions.
It’s not that she wasn’t happy for her sister, far from it. Nadia only wished she could hold on to her for a little longer.
I sway and I spin, I smile. Sometimes even in perfect moments, you begin to feel the cold creep in.
Compulsory heterosexuality rots the brain, has rotted my brain. I just wanted to undo, unlive it.
You die if you worry, die if you don’t. I laughed the first time he said it. I hadn’t heard it before.
Today I woke up slightly ill and with a sense of nostalgia that was only just bearable.