I went to the interview with no eyebrows.

Well, technically no real ones. I drew two on using the few sparse hairs I had left on my forehead as a blueprint for the arch that once was.

Rimmel promised me a precision finish, but their marketing team didn’t account for my aptitude with a stick applicator, which was ironic, because the role I was interviewing for was with a beauty company.

I put the book back on the shelf and go about my day. I don’t think about sending Harry a message to tell him any of this, he knew what it meant then, and that’s enough for now.

There is this guilt that engulfs those of us who are on opposite paths to our own health, desperately coaxing it towards us. We feel lucky (sometimes unclear as to why) to be alive, to be on the road to recovery, so we don’t say how we’re feeling:
“Don’t tell people you’re sad, you’re not dead”; “Don’t mope around, there’s always someone worse off.” And we’d be right, but we’d also be wrong. We’d be fools in deceiving ourselves because there are no winners or rules in this game, only time.

Tans lines and sun kissed cheeks

A sarcastic jab on the phone

Just one more second alone

To dance in the kitchen

Crusty bread that’s good for dipping

Another day by the ocean

Racy sex scenes

My friends laugh in my ear

Maybe just more beer

Paid and published.