December 31, 2018
by Gillian Davies
You were always fragile.
You ate like a bird and your bones,
too thin and empty, held your flesh
like an Oxfam coat.
Your anger fuelled you,
that and the case of beer hidden
in the cupboard, next to the cigarettes
that stained the walls.
The Perfect Woman
He closed his eyes, hands running over his creation, checking for imperfections and finding none. He sighed and looked at the form before him, the perfect woman sculpted, lovingly, from clay. The clay was drying now, moist grey turni...