It's theraputic, and it goes around and around. I place a lock of your hair between the plates and I turn and when I reach the end, I cover my tracks and I go all the way back. I know it's stupid but it's the only thing I can do and everyone needs their hair doing.

I think back to that time sometimes, the time where you loved me, the train station that saved our romance and the tear that stained the floor of platform four. I used to fall for you every time your fingers traced my hair and although now I hate you, I used to love you so much.

In the nights my head likes to spin in circles until I'm too dizzy to function right. I feel Angry, literally, my nail hits the fretboard and I can feel Angry seep between my fingers and my toes and then I learn the power of a nail.

And I am sat on a train and I am calm and I read a book about a girl much like myself and I change the song blasting through my ears and I see the chips in the polish I carelessly applied yesterday and I am reminded of him and how he chatted me up; "by the look of those nails you are definately not older than eighteen" and then I change the music and this song doesn't have a meaning.

And when I return I do not sit with my back to the journey, I face where I am going and I do not reminisce or else I'll miss you. I cried when the bus got to the station, not for how strawlike my hair felt or for how chipped my nails were or for how I love and hate you but more for the fact that it's all died; the weekend, the party, the song and my best friend. I cried for the date, for a year, for time.