Jude Potts

Her heart didn’t break.   It just jammed up with sick slicks of regret, sharp shards of pain, coils wound too tight without you to release them. Cogs turn uselessly without making contact. It ticks an erratic beat, sometimes so slow she barely feels, barely feels, then-its-too-fast,too-fast,nopauseforbreath-or-thought-just-plough-on-through-it-full-of-caffiene-anxiety-and-last-night’s-wine.     She doesn’t want to ‘put herself […]

When her heart broke the first time she was glass shards; shattered. Splintered and spiked, a hand where the pain lived came away red ribboned, flesh stinging. If others offered a shoulder, a hand, a hug, they snagged, reeling away torn on her sharp edges and fragile barbs. She licked her wounds with a bleeding

Over her heart, a tattoo: an ancient map and the words ‘Here Be Dragons’ in faded ink.   Sometimes a fearless pirate would set sail, cutlass strapped to his belt, mind’s eye filled with treasure. A few weeks becalmed on the sea of her indifference was usually enough to make them turn back in search