Emo-Marshmallow

I dreamt once that I would never have to see those colours again, the cold sanitary white, the icy royal blue, for all the years we were squashed by the Tsars, and the bloody crimson, for the communists that followed. I regret that now. Not that I tried to fight for freedom, or persuaded others to fight with me, but how much I yearned to be free of colour. The Serbsky Institute for Psychiatric Expertise, where they are ‘Fixing’ my hatred of those colours, is devoid of any hue but grey. The sky is grey, the floor is grey, my cell is grey, even the food is grey. I miss colours. I was taken, dragged from my flat late one night by th

The pavement was busy, the sun warm on my back through my thin black shirt, and Seb’s hand warmer, his fingers curled over mine. A group of skinheads sneered at us, and the canal twinkled in the golden light as Seb lead me confidently past them. “Where are we going?” “You’ll see” We walked through a park, teeming with kids on bikes and couples on rugs. He had stopped leading me along, and was now content to wrap an arm around my waist, as I wrapped mine around his, linking us together. The headphones around his neck were bent backwards, so the striding guitars and strutting bass line of his favourite ska band