也許一直害怕有答案
there are too many things to think about, too many things that don't exist to not think about. every word has become an accusation, every glance a denial. legs tangled within sheets that are too stark, too white - each morning a reminder that bills must be paid, a job to head to and to trudge back from in the evening. the absent smell of coffee in the morning as you sip tea from a chipped but beloved mug. sometimes you find creamer stashed surreptitiously behind the biscuits, or behind the seldom-used coriander (when's the last time you cooked, anyway). you keep tabs on each other, in a benign, condescending way; pretend-friends, but always knowing that one mis-step could mean the world falling away from your feet. you can't compete with a rival you only hear of between the lines, in politely coded messages asking if you are well, have you met someone yet. jealousy circles like a wolf in scent of prey, and you can't let on that you haven't tried, that you aren't interested, because that would mean that you're the losing party, and no matter what, you cannot, ever, admit to having the short end of the stick.
this is post-apocalypse, and when you get a letter telling you you can go far away, you sign away your life to god-knows-what - as long as you can escape from these ruined shores, this ruined life, it's ok.
this is, of course, as always, half-reality, half-fiction. read it anyway you want, but i'm glad to be leaving for york, an ocean and a half (and probably more) away.
this is post-apocalypse, and when you get a letter telling you you can go far away, you sign away your life to god-knows-what - as long as you can escape from these ruined shores, this ruined life, it's ok.
this is, of course, as always, half-reality, half-fiction. read it anyway you want, but i'm glad to be leaving for york, an ocean and a half (and probably more) away.