this regret machine

  This one is just for me. Nobody else needs to make use of this but me. This is my place of mistakes, my place of regret, my place of machinery. This is my place to be real, to no longer be fictionalised into regression but be authentic, sincere and true. You are grounded. You are real. This is going to nail down a few writing ideas that are crucial to me presently. These were found, gifted or interpreted from all over the place, but resonate here in a place only mine. I hope this helps to clear my head of noise and space, so that I can focus on the words, the work, and the inescapable setting of hailey brain broke. Your origins are your own They do not belong to anybody else — this is originality. This comes from Dorothea Brande,  ‘If you can discover what you are like, if you can discover what you truly believe about most of the major matters of life, you will be able to write a story which is honest and original and unique’.  You are going to grow beyond this suppos...

  (content warning for sexual assault, described. Posting uni work. I'm happy with how I've been doing, but I know I can do a lot better ) My friends have no idea where I am. I left them too long ago. I sit on a vinyl floor, my legs half spread, my fishnets caught in my boots. My back is arched against the wall, my abdomen creased forward, my shoulder blades sharp and pressed. I look ugly against the orange wall, underneath the yellow bulb. Something about the bulb burns my skin.The window is ajar, the floor is cold. My eyes are blue ketteled bubbles, boiling off hot confusion.  I watch her crawl towards me from the other side of the room. In our halved height, we are equal. Her legs are longer and shaved. Her voice is northern, and I can’t understand where it’s from. I hear her speak from somewhere else, like it sounds off the walls, like I’m hearing her through my skin. It’s layered and sinking slow, a boiling molasses of noise. It hurts all through me, but I don’t know ...

it is too dark outside to know the time. the summer never stops to breathe, a constant exhale of music and vibrance and drunk teenagers, shifting from party to party. everything is so much more colourful. but not now. it’s night, the darkest night that he could imagine. he is standing in the automatic doorway to a spar, the doors spread and kept apart. he feels as though he was in their way. the humidity melts away his drunken worry — though giving way to something else. the air conditioning settles on his skin like anxious kisses, pecking the pale hairs down his back. he’s thinking about that scene in after dark , where the two characters sat in a denny’s, mumbling about nothing. he feels like nothing and everything at once, the cold air bringing him down from wherever he’s been for the last week. he walks into the spar. the fluorescent lights greet him, dousing him with the inescapable anxiety of being seen. the shop is obfuscated. he’s looking for a specific place to be. he...

(alcohol, domestic violence & gun mention ) Hurt, 28 years old and wrapped in Vermont thicks Standing on the edge of a field, where corn moves the wind like a whistle through broken teeth Not enough to stop shaking, While waiting at the bus stop They hold their bag close and root through the essentials Passport, purse, change of clothes Pen and paper for postcards, maybe even apologies The bus comes They ride The miners give them strange looks but pays them no mind They recognise one as a drinking buddy, who seems just as blabbering Sober as drunk They retract into the corner a little further They run off two stops early with a clattering down the aisle because they saw a car up ahead And assumes him knowing They get off the bus and run across the road The only person about at this hour Into suburbia, where they always saw themselves headed The houses all look the same in the unwanted dark All blue and all grey They have no idea where to go The cold becomes unbearable Very, very...