I’d been in hospital, but I didn’t know why. My parents told me I’d had a fall and had gone into a coma. All I remember from my trip was seeing God, and I had wings. There was a boy, he told me, that was waiting for me. With me everyday, holding my hand. But why don’t I remember?

I walked out of my apartment and down the sunny sidewalk of Cornwall. I felt weird, like I’d been reborn but my soul was still the same, just fragmented into different pieces. Someone was saying a name.

I turned round. “Amy!” It yelled. And yelled again, and again, and again. Why did that name sound familiar? I shrugged and kept walking.

Someone gripped the wall in front of me. I looked up, slowly. Slowly again, slowly again. I squinted to see a boy. He held roses. His eyes looked at my face. “Amy?” A tear rolled down his cheek.

I watched a blonde haired girl tug at his arm. She wasn’t me, I was brunette. Just like him, blonde. His sister? She smiled at me but I frowned. Who were they?

“Come now,” she spoke a language I didn’t understand. It wasn’t a language I could hear, but I could remember. It was a language of something big, something mutational between me and the boy.

He cried and hugged me, holding me close, until the girl pulled him away. I could see her heart in her hands, giving it to him. So why did she still have a loving expression? Until I realised it was my heart. The one I couldn’t remember about. That boy loved me, I realised. And I loved him. But it was too late, he stepped away into a car.

The name he called wasn’t just a random name, it was my name. And I knew I’d failed his love in this life because of my illness, but I knew through every other life—Amelia, Ameen, Amiee, Ix Cuat, Amo, Ami, Amar, Amara—he’d love me, just as I loved him.

A few pages once white now grey, Thick masking tape to cover the rips like a tigers stripe, Delicate, thin material with scratch marks, A brutal appearance though representing so much love.

Scrawls of black ink, some smudged Showing the hard core of the book and the toughness Of the leather. It all starts with dear diary, But what does it end with?

Magical, how an old few pages can withhold so many memories, And store so much love. It holds all my love letters, And all my pain. You could say, Dear Diary, you may just be a few pages of old tree — But you are the locket of love.

Black. Everything. The beep of a machine; Hospital?

Red. Thirst for it, Rubies, Liquid. Lust.

The sharp teeth from my gums more pointy, My eyes more dark. The smell is close, Rust and wood.

A polychromatic room blinds my eyes. Need. Hunger. Blindness. Raw. Death.

I am becoming the monster I always feared.

All the sweet chocolates sent to me were filled with poison, A green bubbling acid I thought was healthy When really, it was your boiling anger of red, Filled like a heart, but only halfway with venom.

Make me remember, lest I forget the bench Where we sat alone and watched the sea. I had not known then how close to the cliff it had been, And you gifted me my first honey kiss.

Only now do I realise As I look at the wrecked bench we had once shared that special moment - That falling feels like flying until the moment that you land.

In the golden night, Glitter dusts the sky Stars shine like diamonds, Creating a sea of blue in the navy sky.

In the golden night, Birds nestle in crooks and trees. A golden hallway to heaven, Dark trees in the distance, But always a light.

In the golden night, Foxes scavenge around to heal their needs. Bathing in the remains of the rich gold, It’s just like a treasure box being opened.

In the golden night, I am still searching for the things I need most. Like the birds, like the foxes, like the night. I need you To be the star To light up My Golden Night.

Hello. Can you hear me? Hello. Help me please. I'm scared. Hello..?

I put my book down and walk over to my window, looking out at the rain that poured down heavily. I could hear a small voice but I didn't know if it was my inner monologue or something else. I leaned closer as I noticed a face on the other side of the pane. A small hand pressed up against the glass and to my larger hand.

Our eyes widened at once, the rain hitting onto this child, the golden light from my lamp shining onto my face.

Hello.. Can you hear me?

A small circle fogged up on the glass. My lips were dry even if I licked them.

I'm scared.. Please.. Hello?

The younger me stood infront of me. And suddenly, nature wasn't the only one that was crying.

I tried my hand, a new pursuit, Brush to canvas, colours to fruit. But strokes went wayward, hues askew, Masterpiece in progress, not to construe.

Yet still I soldier on, mistakes persist, For in clumsy strokes, I find my true gist. In missteps and failures, growth can transpire, The beauty in imperfection, my art to inspire.

With each stroke gone astray, I embrace the fire. Burning brightly, fueling my artistic desire. In the chaos of creation, I find my solace, In the flames of passion, my art takes it's promise.

In the dance of colours, I find my release, Embracing imperfections, my soul finds peace.

I brew the stew and put the beef into the pan. I chopped up some vegetables and then boiled them. When I'm finished, I take the meal to the table with a fake smile. I'm currently serving for Costello Divina, the CEO of matell, a large clothing brand in New York. But I'm an undercover spy, and he doesn't know that I fished out his true intentions.

Let me spill the tale. He ordered the military to kill an innocent man, Angelina Stefani. Why? Simply because he wouldn't pay Costello a large debt he owed. But, Angelina didn't even owe him the debt. Costello likes using fake news, propaganda, to get people he is jealous of, tortured or murdered. Costello knew that Angelina was rich, and that Angelina had ten million dollars hiding somewhere, but Angelina wouldn't tell Costello. I mean, would you?

Angelina had hidden the money in his daughters coffin. But, his daughter wasn't dead. Confusing, I know. Angelina was my good friend, and knew of my intentions. Because Costello had also killed my father.

I grabbed a glass of red wine and slipped some ketamine into it. That should do it, I thought to myself as I looked around the kitchen. I put an innocent smile on my face, my eyes tightening as I placed the glass down by Costello. If you're asking, I have a wig and makeup on to hide my identity. I walked back to the bar and whistled quietly to myself as I watched him. The cold, steel of a knife pressed against my thigh and I remembered I had my second plan ready just incase.

Karma is a bitch, Costello Divina.

The dim, golden light of the bar was shining on the crowd of dancers. Women and men were playing an anonymous act with their masquerade themed masks. Today, I was here for information. I worked for a secret agency at the FBI. Although, I didn't act like a goody.

I sat down at the bar, grimacing at the sticky cherry wood that was the counter. I ordered a red wine and fished out a large sum of money. I winked at the bartender and turned away, crossing my legs. I adjusted the ear pod I had placed behind my right lobe and pushed a thick strand of hair over my ear to cover it. I looked around and sipped my wine reflectively. My eyes narrowed as I noticed a dark figure sitting in the corner. He was smoking on a cigarette whilst a few men around him played cards.

I smirked to myself and adjusted the black mask around my eyes. It was laced with crimson and gold and some glitter.

I walked over to the group of men slowly. To my dismay, I had only gotten a glance from the mysterious figure. The rest of the men were drunk and interested. I smile at them, but they seem to be oblivious to my face. Perverts.

I walk over to the mysterious figure, my eyebrows raised. "Hello, Mr. Anonymous." I grin slyly and stand next to him as I am rewarded a gravelly laugh. I notice how bright his eyes are, like the sunlight hitting ocean waves as they lap into the shore.

His eyes harden to mask an expression that I can't decipher. A small smirk twitches at the corner of his lips as he looks down at me, his mask a dark royal blue with silver lining. "Mrs. Lovelace," he murmurs into the glass he holds as he brings the whisky to his lips. His scent is like cigarette and musk with worn off cologne. I look up at him, my eyes probably as wide as blackholes. "What a nice day it has been, hm?"

I giggle, the sound ridiculously high pitched. My eyes narrow as I watch him, a small smile on my lips. "Yes, it is indeed. The perfect time to plan something, no?" I say with the most innocence I could muster.

His mouth lowers to my ear as he slowly speaks into it. "Don't think I haven't seen your earplug, Love. I'm surprised you haven't even questioned as to why I know your name." he pulls back and leans against the wall to watch me, one hand around my waist as I am left speechless.

You will be sitting in your office, the anger Seeping through the crack of the door. A knock will be sounded, but you tell them to leave. They ask you why, and you don't reply.

The crumple of the paper as you toss it back into the bin, frustration Weaving through the open windows and into your stream Where it boils around you and bubbling your skin, Negativity fills you as you think about them.

Were all the pages of your creativity just a five minute idea?

The best friend you always trusted, The best friend that supported you when you started writing, The best friend that congratulated you, Is the best friend that betrayed you.