By Sarah Jane Ford
The darkness is the worst. The 3am belly of the night. As the blackness weds its oldest friend silence the memories start their clawing. They settle heavy on the bedclothes and begin to scratch and tear away at my heart and mind. They fill me up until I am overwhelmed by the paradox that I can be so disgustingly full, as though any moment I will burst, from the heartbreaking emptiness.
Why did you have to go and leave me so absolutely alone?
Defenceless to this claiming by the dead of the night.
Now I understand how it got its name.
I'm a twenty-four year old aspiring writer. My best friend died a year ago. This is for her.