I look tired and I feel sad, my boyfriend’s an alcoholic, I drink the leftover wine so he can’t it matters not, by his 4th visit to the shop the mirage is smashed. I angle my face away from the smell, I’m 27 and nesting, readying my womb, that by some miracle a bout of radiotherapy did not destroy! for what? I’m nowhere near ready. … Continue reading 27 and 11 twelfs by Jennifer Stephenson