Monday, 29 October 2012

a ripping time




My fingers roughly pulled at the fabric, eager to see each piece fall away.

Tearing, ripping, breaking.

It might have only been one jumper, but each thread of cotton was stitched together with the bitter voices of the black dog. Voices that have been filling my head for far too long.

Who knew that one grey hoody could hold so many dark memories?

It was there when I was in hospital.

It was there when I took too many pills.

It was there when I hated myself.

It was there when I scratched my arms until they bled.

It was there when I did anything to numb the pain.

A grey hoody that became my invisibility cloak. When I wanted to disappear, that's what I wore. Nobody could see me, I didn't have to look at myself anymore.

And now its gone.

Shredded and ripped at the bottom of my bin.

I delighted in every cut those scissors made, knowing that I would never ever want to wear that grey hoody again.

Hurrah for that!


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