Human Cracks

I walk out of my flat with no clear intentions, dressed a little too lightly for the early spring weather. The trees in Place C have just started to turn green, pink and red, and are swaying gently in the light breeze. I walk aimlessly to the island in the river with my notebook. No good pieces of writing ever come from this kind of mood.

I shiver slightly as the wind strengthens and I wrap myself in my grandmother's old jumper, which itches my back. Groups of people are having picnics by the river, smiling effortlessly under the blooming Japanese cherry trees.

I suddenly can't take it anymore. I don't belong here. I quickly cross the bridge and sit on the bench on the other side, my back turned to the road, barely noticing the cars and watching happy groups of humans - I have to repeatedly remind myself that we belong to the same spieces - from a safe distance while writing things down in my horrible handwriting that is going to be hard to retype later.

I realise that I haven't moved my mouth for a while; my lips are dry.

If I smile, will they crack and bleed?