Hi Marc, I’m sorry, I’m not writing my scab, I just got dumped. I’m sorry (I’m not) I just can’t write. I’m sorry, I tried but I just keep crying. I’m sorry, I’ll start, but I just might not stop… and stopping my life for a moment to write gives me thinking time I don’t want. 

I’m sorry, I’m not writing my scab because I have too many already and they’re covering my skin. I’m itchy and pink and everything I think seems to pick and make them ooze and break. 

I’m sorry, I’m not writing my scab because it’s Friday night and there’s somewhere else I’d rather be. My invite got lost on its way to me or maybe torn up in the break up I need to see my own friends.

I’m sorry, I’m not writing my scab because I’m a little bit drunk and I can’t feel my toes. I can’t feel the pain from my boots and god it feels good not to know. 

I’m sorry, I’m not writing my scab because I have to brush my teeth. I need to keep smiling through this to pretend Im not a hopeless romantic who’s hope got left in the toothbrush cup in Bethnal Green.

I’m sorry, I’m not writing my scab because I’m out of words. I’ve spelt out the contents of my head and all it got me was the little blue tick saying ‘read’. 

I’m sorry, I’m not writing my scab because I’m working too hard. We have all these book crits and briefs and apparently I spend too much time in my own world as is. 

I’m sorry, I’m not writing my scab because I’ve got to go to specsavers, I think I might be blind. Although everyone says the only 2020 is hindsight, so it might clear up. 

Thank you, for making me write my scab, because I feel a lot better after scratching it off.