The Bathtub

She sat in the lukewarm water for going on the second hour, and kept her eyes closed, not wanting to accidentally catch her reflection in the mirror opposite. She used to fit in this tiny bathtub much more easily, but she had stopped paying attention to what she ate at least six months ago; maybe longer, she couldn’t be sure anymore. The bath salts had settled under her legs and bum, the bubbles long since popped, leaving a milky, white film on the surface of the water. That deep sense of aching, that had been permeating her stomach and chest for hours was still there, sinking her further down onto the white ceramic, until she felt absorbed by the cool material. She never knew where this sadness came from, but when it hit, it felt like being stuck in a room as you watch the walls slowly be consumed with fire, and you’re waiting for the inevitable explosion. The heat of the flames sounded good right now, she mused. Reaching the tap to add hot water to the tub would be simple, but she couldn’t muster the energy to rise up and reach out for it, so instead, she sank further, until her head dipped below the surface of the water, and she could taste the manufactured lavender scent against her tongue. She didn’t know how long she was going to stay under there.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 1.23.17

Excerpt from my short story, “Wild Horses”

The following content belongs to me, the author. Opening scene from my short story, titled, Wild Horses

“She traced the freckles on his back with her fingertips. His eyelashes fluttered. She pressed her lips to his left shoulder blade. His lips puckered involuntarily. She felt the warmth of his skin, as the burning light poured into the quiet bedroom. Layla stood up from the comfort of their bed, wrapping the white sheet around her body. She loved his house. Mid-century modern in the Hollywood Hills, full of tall windows and endless natural light. It was Southern California. She loved the high quality white bedding, and framed replicas of work by Pollock, Kandinsky, and Rothko, which adorned the walls. Everything was modern, contemporary, and him. It was Alfie.

The bedside table was stacked with the stuff that made up his busy life. His notebook for his lyrics, a book of poetry by Cocteau he bought in Paris once upon a tour. His worn copy of South of the Border West of the Sun by Murakami; It was a gift from her. She picked it up in Manhattan at a book store in Soho, shortly after they met.”

Original Work: Kelsey H. Written in Autumn 2015, in Manchester, England.

Irish Tea

He brought tea to bed
because it’s what his mother had taught him
to do
as a child,
on cold winter nights when the wind
was howling
and rain beat against his windows,
old as his homeland itself,
she would bring him tea,
and he brought it to me
20 years later
in a flat far newer
than that old, worn down house
he took me to
that weekend in April,
when he pretended to still be a Catholic
and crossed himself at Mass
to make his father proud.

He lay tangled in white cotton sheets,
skin grasping on
to a slight tan
from a week of more sun
than his body had seen
all year.
I licked my lips
instinctively
as I watched his fingers
graze the dip in his waist
and squeeze his hip;
I wished my teeth could dig
into his soft flesh
and nibble just a bit
as I kissed further down below
his sheet
that was covering
my favourite spot
on the inner part of his thigh.

His lilt was gentle music
as he whispered against
the skin of my neck,
his full weight on top of me
anchoring me,
freeing me,
as the rain beat against the windows
and soaked into the earth below.
His skin always smelled
like the sea,
even when he was far away
from home.

He told of his plan
to take me to Killarney
and show me where
his mother had come from
when she was just a girl,
when her mother brought her tea,
on cold winter nights
when the wind was howling
and the rain beat against the windows
of her father’s house.

I’m still waiting.

Original Work: KEH 30/11/16