Mahrukh’s mother laid out the girls’ pyjamas.
“Lend the new set to your friend,” she said, fingering the frayed edges of her daughter’s lilac pair.
She walked in the next morning to find two soundly sleeping girls, one in shredded nightclothes and the other clutching a pair of scissors, smiling sweetly in her dreams.
She lay on the bed, her face turned away, unaware that he had entered the room.
Turning her head, she saw his silhouette framed against the door and that was enough to make the pain leap into her eyes with the ease of an athlete, rabidly scrape their damp, crumbling walls, scatter agony-shavings and exult in its revival.
Pain, old friend, lifetime companion, gap-toothed, twinkle-toed and all-pervasive, was back on centre-stage, winning accolades again.
…that a 2 ½ year old former model for Huggies diapers flashes his 14 perfect pearly whites at me and announces “Susu!” as a clear, yellow puddle rapidly spreads around his chubby legs?
She grabs me by the shoulder
and shakes me up,
to make sweet music
from the clatter of teeth.
Her claws leave bruises,
maps of despair,
that spread, sprawl, stain
across the dark continent that is my body.
Hair ripped out, lips split open,
fingers clenched
into fists of desperation,
I claw back
at her sneering mouth,
foaming bile burning my feet,
devouring my spirit
and what’s left of my resolve.
Life and I, we were once fast friends.
Ultra Violet
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi