The Places I've Cried in Public by Holly Bourne

It’s half two in the morning and I’m back here
where it started.
Yes, of course it’s cold. It’s half two in the
morning, mid February, and I’m not dressed properly.
I just bunged my coat on over my pyjamas and ran
here in my slippers. I’m sat on this bench, shivering
violently under the useless faux fur of my coat and
I’m not sure why.
You see, I was in bed, doing my usual notsleeping
and trying-to-figure-out-what-the-hellhappened
and thinking-it’s-all-my-fault and huddlinginto-a-ball-and-disintegrating,
and then, tonight –
half an hour ago, to be precise – it became clear.
I needed to come here.
My breath escapes in short puffs of crystallized
fog that float down to the dormant railway tracks. It’s
so quiet in this alleyway. It feels like the whole world
is asleep. Apart from me and my broken heart.