A wee bit of prose I dug out from about a year back. I've been trying to write and can't, but I'd like to post so ta-da.

I’d smell the tips of my fingers and I’d screw up my eyes, kneading my face with my knuckles furiously. It’s a sting-eyed sensation, welling up in your crotch and worming its way up to a gasp. Surreptitious fool, hidden in a third floor bedroom, reliving and replaying five minutes ago, all the while almost foetal, some lump of flesh and bone, some sack of ground-down pseudo-charisma, pressing his Greek tragedy mask to his face. It seems just yesterday that I’d made the huge one small step to adulthood, this utopian shit-hole where we, grown and straight backed and proud, cursed cameras and speeding fines, pregnant women and the kids of today. How strange, to be told, light in one eye, to never forget your roots, yet as soon as you’re a day eighteen you unfurl your skinny self, are pushed out of the nest and you’re fucked.

So I’m here, in this third floor room. It was some spat, just a little thing, long and short; she’d called me a kid. Just a kid – what in fuck’s name happened to man, fully grown, bristling with now-comfortable testosterone, hair spewing from every orifice? The truth is nothing happened. An hour after twelve and nothing has changed. After all, either way, boys don’t cry, but it’s too late. A single, solitary reminder, a blot on a copybook, and now it’s etched in the annals of history: a single tear, and, what’s more, you are a fucking man. I tell myself, you’re a fucking man.

I taste the salty water and press my hands into my face as far as I can.
“You bloody idiot”.
"You can never quarantine the past."