The exception that proves the rule. A blog of short writings from Australia and England.
Saturday, 11 April 2015
She was sour inside. Someone had used her up, taken all her sweet nothings and run away. Left her to dry up and acetify. All she had left now was a sour taste in the back of her throat and a bedroom full of regrets. Sometimes she dwelt. Sitting on the cold bathroom tiles with an empty bottle, slicing herself like a lemon. Letting all the sour out.