I feel as though I've taken all the years of teenage uncertainty and anguish and worked hard at scrubbing all of that out of me. But recently I've been feeling as though there's nothing left. I have been waiting for a while for the outward breath - the sigh of relief that makes space for something new. But instead I've got the scratched raw burning of overstretched lungs running on empty.
I have no writing in me at the moment. I barely have any person in me, it's like I'm nothing inside and I can't even quite recall if there was anything interesting in me to begin with.
I have gone too far into the quiet calm within myself and found nothing beyond.
Here, have a photo. It's all Ive got to give for now.
It's tea lights in coloured jars on a long exposure, I think they look like fairies.