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. You had secrets, or so you thought But they spilled out with wine and vitriol I kept silent though, who could I tell? No one wanted to know. Nothing died with you, the memories are still here, but children laugh now within those walls. the paint is white and clean, an exorcism of pain, no ghost remains.
Gillian lives in a small village in Wales, on the edge of a National Park. Being the eldest of a group of cousins, she started to make up her own stories to entertain them and began submitting to writing sites. Some of her short stories and poetry have been published in anthologies and she is currently completing her second novel.