Entries from the interior
She wrote it
down.
One woman. Unnamed. Unfinished. Writing her way through every fracture, every silence, every version of herself she had to survive. Short fiction. Raw truth. No face attached.
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Latest entries
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Still Writing
This isn't the end. There is no end. There's just a woman at a kitchen table who hasn't run out of things to say.
Thank You
Thank you. For reading. For staying. For finding yourself in these pages and not looking away.
What Happens Next
I don't know what happens next. For the first time in my life that's not terrifying. It's the whole point.
Saturday
Nothing happened today. Nothing at all. And it was the best day I've had in years.
The Things I’m Good At
I am good at things. Plural. Multiple things. I am listing them here because for thirteen years someone made me forget and I am done forgetting.
Still Here
After everything. The quiet house. The abuse. The musician. The marriage. The bedroom. The Jobcentre. The shower. The 3am. After all of it. I'm still here.
The Supermarket
Tesco shouldn't be hard. It's a supermarket. It's fluorescent lighting and wonky trolleys and the same Adele song they've been playing since 2015. But for me it's a battlefield.
Read Receipts
He read it forty minutes ago. He hasn't replied. And in forty minutes my brain has constructed seventeen reasons why, all of which end with him leaving.
"I didn't write this for you.
I wrote it so I'd
believe myself."
I wrote it so I'd
believe myself."