freya french is sitting in the row next to me on the bus
when we were young, maybe eight, she gave me this plastic figure of a grey cat on a cobbled patch
i loved it, we were kind of friends
now i don't know if she even recognises me
we won't say hi, we had lunch on the same table every day of year 4
i think i hold the past closer to myself than others, or at least the details stick to me like the PVA we'd peel off our palms
A/N - i am too sentimental, i have a good life now, but to have a day in primary school? as a holiday, as a little treat? and dont get me started on the premature mourning/nostalgia when im having a good time, god. everythings so precious its exhausting, im the luckiest.
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The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known
PoetryI write poetry and use writing prompts and start stories, chances are they'll be one of three things: simple, artsy, pretentious. All of them will be pretty bad. Bad art is better than no art, though, and more people need to let themselves make bad...
