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Shortlisted Entry, Sudden Writing Competition: Ankle Basher


min read

I force my hopes, my dreams, my fears, and my embarrassment into jeans a size too small for me. Determined denim squeezes its way around my hips and thighs, leaving angry red impressions around my waist.  

On top, a security blanket in the form of a far too large jumper, a noir tsunami of polyester that smothers my tits and curves and any shape into submission. In the mirror, the last traces of me slide away and I can see you. A long-lost lover I pretend I don’t recognize when I pass you. But besides looking a little more awake in the eyes, a little less freckled in the face, a bit smaller and a whole lot tighter, you look just like the day I tried to dump you. You stand in the silver and criticize who I am, what I’ve become – plain, failing and still angsty below my years. 

I’ve found spiteful solace in self-loathing, but when I picture both of us speeding down a dark highway at 83 miles an hour, cold wind in our hair and faces brightened by the dashboard, I can’t decide on who I would rather see wrapped around the tree at the end.