Thirty one days. 

It’s thirty one days, since I spoke to someone else.

My observation doesn’t mean you’re not enough, it means you’re all I have. 

Your eyes dart to desirable cars, glazed over, disinterested.

I stop speaking.

I sigh. 

A painful, heavy sigh. 

The language is coming slowly, but the confidence won’t follow. 

Cancelled plans. 

Ignored and “unread” messages. 

Food smears on my new dress.

Loose navy cardy hides my shame.

Hair in a tight bun. 

Pores visible.

Lines extending, deepening.

Reoccurring nightmares, the taste of sick in my throat.

British. 

No it’s worse yet, English

Fucking Brexit

Different and unwelcome. 

Lonely and sad. 

Isolated and afraid.

Grieving for a life I loved to hate.

Crying for a body I yearn to feel.

Wondering where on earth I might go, that I’d never be found. 

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