CN: suicidalism, dysphoria
Preface.
I am walking briskly through a wet backstreet of central London, wishing I’d worn a hat which somehow draws attention away from my smooth, feminine facial features. My sharp haircut has done exactly the opposite, and the wind is dragging lines of tears across my face as I trudge home.
I’m not crying.
In order to cry, I would have to sit down on a freezing bench in a nearby square garden, and think about how I am still alive, how blood still courses through my veins to and from my heart valves; how that must still be worth something. I don’t do a lot of thinking these days, or a lot of talking. I sleep.
It is pitch-black already, and I look for a sign to get onto Oxford street so that I can go the fuck home.