by Olivia Tuck
I don’t like the dark.
November is a smoky month, what with people setting fire to things for fun. Shadows clog each day’s arteries and my lamplight is too yellow, too dim, to be an antidote.
My room’s damp. The old wallpaper bubbles. The plastic styling head I got for my seventh Christmas leers at us, its lips parted in mutism. I pretend I don’t mind.
Storm has dyed her hair again. It’s changed from will o’ the wisp white to a migraine