Sometime in September

There’s only so much you can say about a bad day without sounding self-important.

The grade is in their best sarees and suits. There are hardly any pictures of you. You’re in the corridor and you’re doing your best not to completely lose it. You’re short. They’re not waving at you, but you think they are. The one-inch heels give you comfort for one moment.

You’re on stage, mic in hand. Words fall, rolling and now scattered across the court like noisy marbles, runningrunningslippingfallingcrashingrunning – shit you fucked up the ceremonial prayer. You pray you didn’t swear into the goddamn mic in front of 250 people. No one says anything after, so you think you didn’t. But, you’ll never really know.

You manage to compere. You’re dancing. You can’t breathe. She ends the show. Its over. You still can’t breathe. You’re sitting on the staircase backstage, head in your hands and black charcoal on your face. The shit from birds nesting above your head is all over the concrete but you don’t care about anything but the simultaneous numbness and exhaustion under your skin.

Coffee. Coffee will help when you get home. There’s a clanging in your head but its okay because coffee is the ammunition you need for the battle after the war.

Black eyeliner doesn’t wash away quick enough and prettily enough for you to erase the hate that beauty in everything you admire brings.
Yes, there’s only so much you can say without sounding so bloody self-important.

That, and you know you have to stop when the writing just gets….bad.

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