I keep my eyes half-closed all the way home, and when I get inside I lock the door and close the curtains, curling-up in bed, my head under the covers, breathing the same air over and over again, a feather of sleep spinning downward like a sycamore seed, until I look down into that deep well through darklight, that moon-mirror glinting up from the pit, myself staring back at myself, the well-walls now crack and groan, I didn’t, I didn’t... that sound downstairs of the dog scratching at the backdoor, this tin-taste of blood as my fist hits my mouth, again, again... I get up, let the dog out, go get lager vodka Blue Nun.

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Behind her lipstick, blusher, foundation, eyeliner, tampons, moisturiser, nail varnish pink, nail varnish blue, lies that little tin box at the back, a box that once held Easter present toffee but now holds a razor blade stolen from her dad eight months ago, six cotton balls, a small bottle of antiseptic, four sticking plasters, as now she sits down on the edge of the bed, her blouse pulled up, her leggings pulled down, the pinch of soft inner-thigh a hand-width from her gusset, teeth clenched as the razor blade makes a silent tiny mouth that bleeds...

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