Bad Things

Sometimes, sneaking a smoke out the front as the world quiets and darkens, I imagine bad things, like the passing car slowing down and men with guns jumping out. Or the Ryanair passenger plane overhead opening its belly and spilling out tons of about-to-burst metal. Or waking up behind a locked door, your body belonging to someone else now, or sitting tiny before a man in camaflauge, begging for your child back.

Then I think ‘thank God that’s not real’, finish my cigarette and go back into the light.

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