Was I born a masochist or did society make me this way? I demand unconditional love and complete freedom. That is why I am terrible.


I am tired of weak women. What happened to us? Eyeliner winged, stilettos tapping the ground rhythmically, heads held high, and yet we’re so broken inside. How did we become a generation of professional women with critically low self esteem? Why is nothing we do ever good enough? We can be mothers, daughters, sisters, friends, and somehow if you’re single, if a man finds you undesirable, that’s the tipping point. That can cost you everything.

I’ve seen smart girls fall into the most obvious traps, losing their minds over heartless boys who never gave a second thought to their sufferings. I’ve seen her chase pills with vodka and cry in the hospital wing after getting her stomach pumped while he sat there guiltily, mumbling useless apologies. You don’t apologise for breaking a heart, it takes exceptional cruelty to expect forgiveness for such a crime.

I’ve seen her draw hearts in chalk on his doorstep, drowning out the unbearable noises in her head, warning her that he is nothing but a mistake. I saw her break a plate in half and draw colourful lines on her wrist with the porcelain edge, and a terrible smile settled on her face. She was an angel before he stole her wings.

I am tired of weak men. What happened to you? What sort of sadistic pleasure do you derive from destroying beautiful women? What is so much easier about lying than telling the truth? Why do you thrive on the ambiguity, on empty promises, on vague implications of a possible future involving two, when that is never your intention? Why give us the illusion that we mean something and then blame us for believing in magic?

I will not settle for your late night guilt, when the last quarter bottle of rum reminds you of the taste of her and you ponder the idea of calling, and you wonder if she misses you too. She does not.

I will not accept the regret that comes two years later, when you see a face that reminds you of her but the new girl is not as pretty, and you wonder if you made a mistake. Yes you did.

So take your sheepish smile and use your charm on someone more naive, a brown eyed girl with curly lashes who lies in bed and pictures the two of you happy, and hurts when you never call. You will never hurt me.

I am tired of weak people. Look alive, darling, the fight’s not over yet. Let’s go to war over nothing, the same reason as always. Tell me how much you loved her silky blonde hair and soft lips that always tasted like cherry chap-stick. Tell me how she wept on the kitchen floor clutching a bottle of gin when you told her the truth isn’t what she’d always wished for. Tell me how you’ve kept busy all these years trying to forget the way she smiled on the way out, dragging the last of her luggage and the last piece of her shattered heart. Tell me I should never love you. I promise I won’t.


He ran his fingers down her back, tracing her spine, spelling out secrets on her soft skin, oblivious to the bored stupor in her eyes. There was nothing else soft about her. The years had hardened her in ways he could not imagine. She was no longer the shy girl with the apologetic smile, running in circles trying to please everybody. These days she took pleasure in others’ pain. Not for sadistic reasons, but for survival.

She discovered that soft hearts may melt the tip of the ice berg but it eventually leaves you drowning and no one has the time of day to lend a hand. So she traded a warm beating heart for the slow chills of Winter’s grace, and when he touched her a shiver ran through him, he knew she was unbreakable. When the sun rose she shook off the dust of leftover lust and relished the thought of being forgotten. It is a remarkable compliment, if you know how to take it.

You will never be better than what never was. Reality can never trump the imaginary, the many layers of fiction we fabricate in our minds when no one is around to criticise our priorities. She will pretend they fell in love, because when she pictured happiness she saw a white picket fence, two glasses of wine, and well behaved children. He will pretend she was a work of art, not meant for keeping, because when he pictured happiness he saw himself at a bar, sipping whiskey with the other men hiding from their wives. Pesky women, aren’t we? Can’t stay away though, can you?

If it doesn’t mean anything, what is the point?

The point is I can taste you when I touch my lips. I can feel your fingers graze my skin, igniting every piece of me; I have never felt more alive than when you kissed me. The point is I don’t need to know you. I don’t want to hear your unapologetic stories of betrayal, I will not dream of curing your bad habits. Be bad, be bold, be devastatingly imperfect with me. I want to love you, for one moment. I want to love you, as we are. I want to love you, and forget you. That is the only sort of love I know.


seven kinds of loneliness

i. his hands are wrapped around my waist and our bodies are tangled, we’re trading techniques we’ve collected from strangers over the years, trying to find the best fit. he holds me closer and my head is pressed into his chest, there’s no room to breathe. i am begging for more, but he has nothing more to offer

ii. we trade secrets in the dark. he asks me where my scars come from and i gather from his fitful slumber that he has demons of his own. i make myself small to fit into his arms, looking like a doll, dressed to kill. there is a heaviness lingering in the air, he’s giving me the dangerous illusion that he enjoys my company, and i love taking risks

iii. i turn around to face him, i want to see if he has honest eyes. he kisses my forehead, my neck, my collarbones. a terrible thought occurs to me: i would not mind waking up to this face every morning. i hide my panic with a cheeky grin and disappear under the blankets. he will never touch more than my skin. there is a sharp edge in his smile and i refuse to let another man cut me deep

iv. i sip my coffee with a grace he couldn’t have fathomed from what he’d witnessed the night before, but before he can hold on to the moment i blow a smoke ring in his face to remind him bad girls don’t change. he catches me staring and asks what’s on my mind. i don’t know how to explain this is the part of the game i really hate. when a small piece of me thinks…’just maybe

v. it becomes a game of cat and mouse, hide and seek, the first to call back admits defeat. we both have too much pride to lose. i start to get lost in my world of hypotheticals where we are not cowards, and love doesn’t always equate to heartbreak. i wake up to the blank space next to me and somehow it feels emptier than it used to be

vi. he makes a joke about being in love and i flinch at his innocent words. i know this is childish behaviour, immature lust, but when his hands are wrapped around my body and his lips are pressed to mine, the past seems further away and not so harrowing. i start to want more than this. i will always want what i can’t have

vii. we keep our cards hidden well and we never play our aces. he shows me his poker face and i pretend i don’t have one. i don’t interrogate him about his past and he pretends that mine doesn’t bother him. we stare at the puzzles set up for each other and forget we don’t have the time for such games. there are no victors in this arena


We’ll never love like this again.
When this is over, we won’t be the same.

Because we might be writing new names into blank spaces but none of us are blank slates anymore. Relationships no longer start at square one. When you meet someone for the first time you’re meeting their every heartbreak, every lie, every broken promise. You’re left carrying all the baggage they should have left behind but stubbornly held onto till it molded them into this beautiful mess. You’re not just falling for the boy his mother raised him to be, but the collective wisdom of ten ex girlfriends and all the things they wanted him to change but he didn’t. You’ll discover the same flaws that made the last one leave and you’ll think the same thing she did- , “I’m different“. That was your chance to walk away. You should have known better.

Instead you’re wearing Ashley’s daring shade of lipstick and Stella’s dyed pixie haircut. You go out to dinner in Lindsay’s little black dress and you’re dabbing on Claire’s favourite brand of mascara. He never bores you with the details of what he loved about them. He’s a gentleman, and he politely pretends you’re brand new, even though every piece of you is a shadow of an ex-lover, and every kiss brings back memories of another. He walks you back to your apartment with his arm around your shoulders, and at the door you lean in to kiss him so hard he sees stars. You just wanted to feel something.

He’s touching your skin but tracing her collarbones, he’s losing himself in finer, gentler memories that you will never understand. You don’t tell him you’re a liar too, he doesn’t need to know you’re better at it. You don’t tell him you fell in love with the boy who smiled at you on the train and when you imagined kissing him your heart beat faster at the thought of betrayal. You don’t reveal the cheap thrills you indulge in when life gets boring and you don’t warn him that the best you’ll ever be is his biggest mistake. He doesn’t notice when you dig your roots into his veins and draw poison to quench a never ending thirst. He doesn’t know you sold your soul to the devil the first chance you got, and your leftover innocence won’t make up for the insanity.

You’ll never replace his first love, and when he doesn’t give you his heart it’s not out of cruelty, but he genuinely does not recall where he misplaced it. What is left is not enough to shatter, you are just the mirror of a mirror, barely leaving an impression. You foolishly poured out your soul at 2 AM in the dark, expecting his warm body to heat up your cold memories, and now you’re nothing but empty. He will miss you but that doesn’t mean he’s not relieved when you leave. He knows how to live without you, just like how he lived without all the others. Practice makes perfect.

You craved understanding but he never wanted to understand you. To get under someone’s skin, tear off the mask, feel their triumphs and their pain, it takes patience and precision. It takes kindness and blind faith. Neither of you had that luxury. It takes a special kind of optimism that diminishes with each round. You were not new to the game and nor was he. When you interrogated him for the last time and whispered “how could you do this to me“, he laughed and replied “you would have done the same“. You vow to never lose again.

When he disposes you he forgets to mention that it isn’t because you’re so disposable. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he really did love you. He just loved himself a little bit more, and at the end of the day you were both better at being alone. When the silence around you began to grow uncomfortable he felt shame for wasting your time. In time, you will thank him for leaving.

When you finally examine the past without a bruised ego blurring your clarity, you discover that every bruise was intentional, and you fought for anonymity because you wanted to be forgotten. You wore a suit of fake skin so you could slip out unseen when needed. Like a snake that can molt on command or the lizard that can detach its tail, you knew how to disappear without a trace.

Nothing feels worse than being left, nothing feels better than leaving.



I never enjoyed kissing him. That sounds absurd when I think about it. How did we manage to sustain a longish term relationship without enjoying basic foundations such as kissing? What is it about this primal, silly activity that can make your heart beat faster and your head spin? I’d like to believe it is more than just chemicals reacting.

It is the first point of contact. The first kiss can mean everything. It can determine the rest of the relationship with devastating accuracy, because we always remember the first kiss. Our first kiss was careless. He saw me smile, the first time I had really smiled in months, and he couldn’t resist. It just felt right at the time, and in that instant, neither of us stopped to ponder the consequences. Neither of us wanted to admit that the first kiss was a mistake. I will admit now that every kiss after that was willful blindness.

I am beginning to remember now. The look in his eyes I had mistaken for innocence. Those were the eyes of someone stuck in perpetual childhood, the dark circles of one who lacked the self control to make up a bed time, and the fine lines of one who left adolescence but never left it behind. What I had confused for charm was merely a reluctance to grow up, an unwillingness to face responsibilities.

When I look back I can’t find substance, only substance abuse. I can’t find intimacy, only shared facilities for the sake of convenience. I can’t find harmony, only painfully trivial arguments over nothing. I can’t find passion, only selfish desire that tasted of lost art and rotten intentions. I can’t find the boy I thought I loved, only the empty shadow of a tall child masquerading as a hero in a poorly designed cheap suit, glaring at me, blaming me for his infidelity. I can’t find comfort, only cold nights, chilly sheets and an empty bed that screamed space. Because we needed all that space to make room for lost dreams.

I have been shedding my skin, ridding myself of every cell bruised by his touch, his pride and determination. In his desperation to reclaim something that was never lost, barely tangible, he was willing to throw away the rest, including us, including me. His choices will always remain a mystery to me, but I am no longer interested in solving the puzzle. Without his mask, he was never that interesting.


It is summer and the air feels thin around us. You open all the windows in our apartment to tempt a non existent breeze while I pout at the weak air conditioning as if I could guilt it into functioning. We spend our mornings cramped in the bathroom, taking cold showers together and spending too much time with our hands on each other. I grew accustomed to the calluses on your fingers and you learn to avoid my scars. We barely knew each other but we didn’t need to know better. You dragged me to the beach for an excuse to hold my hand, and to this day I cannot visit the ocean without thinking of your arms around me under the waves, keeping me close. Every mistake we made that day was worth it. I looked into your eyes and saw passion.

It is Autumn and the air is gentle. It is the season of death and redemption, and we are no longer infatuated with each other’s quirks and sins, we have fallen into a deeper mystery. You read me poems by Frost and I try to memorise your favourite. I have not been able to tempt a poem from my mind since; all my words have twisted into bitter songs. Every remarkable day we spent under the sun has been stored away, you turned my mind into a maze and I have given up my search for peace. I looked into your eyes and refused to read the signs.

It is Winter and your heart is frozen. I caught the way you looked at her and gave you more credit than you ever bargained for. I begged you to be a better liar and swallowed your guilt, I downed your lies faster than tequila, boy you served it smooth. I looked into our mirror and the wild child had disappeared, I was a fool who thought you could love me tamed. I grew comfortable and complacent, not noticing the more I tried to love you the more you despised me for it. You took both hands and wrapped them around the life I’d planned and squeezed the last breath out of it. You silenced my screams with a kiss. I looked into your eyes and saw my own darkness.

It is Spring and I am learning how to let go. I know the reasons you won’t be coming, I understand why you couldn’t stay. I am recollecting traces of myself and spending hours chasing memories while you wait patiently for them to expire. But I’m the ghost in your corridor at 2 in the morning when you have company yet still feel lonely. I’m the coffee you drink every morning and I’m the song played by every radio station on repeat. I’m the taste of regret that lingers on the bottom of every glass of whiskey and there will never be enough alcohol to drown out the voice in your head whispering my name. I’m the colour of Autumn and I don’t fade easily. I will never look into your eyes again.


I remember days and months wasted, drinking too much and eating too little, demanding the collective wisdom of friends who were tired of hearing his name, desperate to know if they thought he ever loved me. But I am beginning to understand that perhaps there isn’t a truth to everything, and I don’t need to know the truth anymore. What he thought was good for him may not be what is right, but these are old injuries now, and I refuse to acknowledge the scars. We will grow old separately, our hearts will falter and sing, we will fall over and over, and continue to make the same mistakes with unwavering enthusiasm.

I remember lying by his side, his head bowed down in shame as he begged me to hate him but refused to give me a reason. By the time he was ready to admit his error in judgment I was in too deep, discovering for the first time that the past can be so unforgiving. I was too busy delegating blame and he was busy trying to erase his misdemeanors. We were both so caught up in the moment, neither of us stopped to study our mistakes. With my back against the wall and stripped bare of all my pride, he reminded me that love is immortal but we were only human.

I remember meeting at the coffee house, sitting across from each other, trying to keep a safe distance because we weren’t sure who was more toxic. He said it was good to see me again and he sounded so genuine I almost wanted to believe him. Before our drinks had cooled I found his arms around me, his lips on mine, and it was beginning to feel like home. Then I looked down at his hands and I saw murdered love; I looked into his eyes and saw a guilty conscience; I touched my own skin and felt dirty again.

I remember throwing his favourite mug on the kitchen floor and taking twisted pleasure in watching it shatter. I thought it was a fitting tribute, like the way she had shattered my life with one simple phone call. I hated the sound of her name, his insistence of her innocence, her childish belief that being good to many entitled her to wound a few.

I remember sleeping in his old room and trying to imagine what he was like as a child. I wondered if he was always so easy going and secretly stubborn, kind to strangers and cruel to those who got too close. I waited for him to fall asleep and in the dark I scratched her perfume off my skin. He woke up to the nightmare that had become our lives, we could not look at each other without spite brewing. We started keeping track of our crimes and histories began to matter as I looked for ways to erase myself from his life. We found solace in the pain we caused each other, we promised to never love so deeply again.


We crave flesh and intimacy, carved from infatuation, and we want from strangers the most. In a city of sin, there is nothing better than those brief moments of almost lovers. When your hands are close enough to feel the warmth radiating from their skin but you’re not quite touching. When your lips are close enough to sense their breath but you don’t taste their desire. In this city we treat love like a myth because there’s too much history, leftover anger, unrequited heartache. We don’t fall for romantic gestures, our hearts are bulletproof. We want to be understood but we don’t bother explaining ourselves. We want intimacy but we push people away, we say distance makes the heart grow fonder but we don’t actually believe it. We want lives worth remembering but we drink enough to forget what happens most nights.

We are liars who crave the truth, we are criminals who admire honesty. We study each other through the champagne haze and cigar fumes, and pretend our smiles are sufficient introduction. You ask for my name and I tell you one. This is my first lie.

Four shots of tequila later the club lights fade out, you’re standing at the entrance of my hotel lobby, demanding to see me again. You ask me why I’m leaving, I hate you for begging me to stay. This is your first mistake.

We nurse our hangovers together the next morning, hiding our dark circles behind over-sized sunglasses and putting too much expectation into the healing effects of early coffee. You order me a latte and I learn a little more about you with every sip. You tell me about your life and sneak in subtle hints of where I would fit in. I smile and listen, I pretend I haven’t heard this before. This is our first date.

You take me out to dinner and I insist on splitting the bill to avoid giving you the wrong impression. You take me out drinking again so you can blurt out after the last shot of absinthe that you think I’m marriage material. You insist it is love at first sight, as if a decent first impression is enough to maintain a stable relationship. You tell me you’re done with games. This is what they all say.

I ponder the limited potential of two people terrified of commitment, and the reality of what your declaration really meant: you are ready to be inconsistent with me now. I make a half hearted attempt at honesty and tell you love doesn’t seem to last very long for me. I wonder if you said the same thing to the last girl, I adjust myself to the possibility of being wounded again. This is my favourite game.


It’s funny how quickly things can change. Your favourite cafe has caved to the new competition that opened next door, and I am too afraid of your shadow to visit mine. I still drink coffee but I never add sugar anymore; some days I taste more bitter than black espresso.

It was the way you chose to remember me. We sat in mutual regret, two stupid kids who fell in love with so much enthusiasm we didn’t know how to fall out without falling to pieces. I fidgeted with my sleeves, waiting for you to speak, to make an effort, to put some substance into the words you kept repeating. I still loved you enough to believe you could change, even when you couldn’t look at me. Maybe because you knew you couldn’t fix your mistakes, and you saw our meeting for what it was: an empty gesture; salt on my wounds. I will pretend you felt shame.

It was the way you sighed, it caught me off guard. Years of regret frozen in the solemn air, lingering,  the world was locked in slow motion, and I couldn’t cry anymore, my tears had hardened. There was pain in your eyes too, and I was responsible, I made sure we’d suffer together. I would trade our most colourful memories for one last miserable fight with you, to disagree violently and unapologetically, to scream and shout and show no mercy, to remember you in more than just faded mistakes.

I waited for you to fall asleep while I rested my shoulders on your chest and counted your heartbeat. I heard you mumble an awkward apology and realised I would never learn to forgive you. Maybe because if I don’t hate you I might have to actually feel something and that could kill me. Maybe because I would trade all our memories together just to remember what it feels like to be whole again. Maybe because I am in love with this pain, this exquisite pain of being incomplete, the intoxicating allure of feeling broken.



The morning after, I woke up, kissed him on the lips, got dressed, and cooked him breakfast. Fried bacon, poached eggs, sausages, and toast. He ate in the living room and I watched him through last night’s smudged eyeliner and an even murkier memory, I settled for confusion. I didn’t want to know. I did not need things to be clear. I kissed him again at the door on his way out.

Four months later a friend offered me an escape to another city, and as we huddled in his driveway to share our last cigarette, I asked him “Is it rape if I said no?” He stared at me with a look of horrified comprehension and I realised what I’d done. I wasn’t his manic pixie dream girl, I was just a whole new level of ‘fucked up‘.

I don’t know how far back we would have to trace my mistakes to find out when it all went wrong. Maybe it was the first time a boyfriend insisted even though I wasn’t in the mood. Maybe it was the second time, when he mistook struggle for desire. Maybe I stopped caring after that, and accepted the sickening feeling in my stomach every time he touched me, like I’d swallowed something rotten.

Maybe it was the boy who thought a movie isn’t complete without a quickie and the obligatory request for my phone number, even though we both know he’ll never call. Maybe it was the boy who was kind enough to explain that he was attracted to me, but in a purely physical way. I was expected to take that as a compliment, so I did.

Some point along the line, I made a point to stop caring, I told myself the past didn’t matter. If I cook him breakfast, then it was just a regular date. If I don’t cry about it, then I’m not a victim. If I don’t have nightmares, then it never happened. If I never see him again, then I will learn to forget his name.

Four years later in a hotel room halfway across the world, I locked myself in the bathroom because I finally remembered and I forgot how to breathe. I felt his hands wrapped around my throat, I had rationalised to myself over the years that maybe he couldn’t hear me. Maybe if I had yelled instead of whispered, I wouldn’t feel guilty about delegating blame. I have studied the scar on my leg often and rationalised to myself that I was never innocent, but maybe I could still heal one day. Maybe it was just a bad dream and I will wake up soon.

But four years have passed and I have not been able to sleep without his shadow in my bed, and the scar refuses to fade. I am still waiting to be left alone.


You’re trying to convince me that life has changed, sufficient time has passed, we have moved on. You’re back at your folks’ place in the cramped trailer in the yard that shakes when the rain is heavy. It’s filled with your little sister’s old toys and you’re watching her grow out of her childhood. You pray that no one will take her innocence away; you know someone will.

You meet a pretty girl with brown locks and long dark lashes, your least favourite thing about her is that she drinks the same coffee as me. Her lips always curl into a smile when you kiss her, and you see in her a better lover, a gentler love. But when she falls asleep your mind always drifts to memories of me, and your thoughts are never kind. A part of you dreams of hurting me. You know you’ll never deserve her; you don’t tell her this.

Your mother asked about me once and the look on your face was enough to answer all her questions. Your family remembers me as the sweet girl who loved you. They never saw my anger, they never knew your pain. They didn’t witness your crimes, and I never let you share the blame. I stood by your side and watched you charm your life away, the golden boy with the perfect smile, and I couldn’t bear to shatter your pride, so I shattered mine. You let go of my hand when I was grasping for straws; you laughed when I was swallowed by the sea.

Your sister is in love with the boy next door and you are afraid he will hurt her the same way you hurt me. Karma did not disappoint. You caught her in the bathroom lending substance to her heartache and when you watched him slice her heart right open, you caught your own reflection. When she dug her nails into your hand and mumbled apologies you learn how little the word “sorry” is really worth. You remember your own apologies; you feel guilt for the first time.

I’m chain smoking on a hotel balcony in the heart of New York city, with a stranger’s arms wrapped around my shoulders. He smells just like you. I close my eyes, inhale the cancerous fumes and pretend he looks like you too. I learn to settle for amateur imitations. He likes to joke that I’m broken just the right amount to make me a wild child, and toxic just enough to be addictive. I don’t tell him I am poison; I try to forget you’re my antidote.


This is how the story goes.

We have dinner and drinks at the same restaurant you take all the girls, but I pretend to feel special, I know how to follow the rules of your game. You compliment my dress and I laugh at all your jokes to make the date proceed smoothly. You ask about my childhood and I tell you it was uneventful, it was fine. I don’t tell you my parents were never home and I still struggle to make dinner conversation because I never had the practice. By the time dessert arrives, we’ve slowly gotten to know each other, but not accurately. You kept your dirty little secrets to yourself and I did my best to hide my crazy. We both spend the night pretending to be normal, and I smile when you kiss me good night. I think I might like you. This is the beginning of the honeymoon phase.

In the next three months I become the centre of your world. We watch all the movies we saved up when we lacked the right company, and annoy all our friends with excessive PDA. We go for walks on the beach, we watch the sunset together, I get used to holding your hand. A few months later we give in to our cravings for intimacy and I get used to falling asleep with your arm around my waist, I learn what it is like to feel safe. We incorporate our mutual quirks into a flawless morning routine and you start to drink coffee even though you prefer tea.  This is how I fall in love with you.

Sooner rather than later you start to learn things about me that you don’t like. You think you might be bored with me but you’re not entirely sure, so you don’t say anything. I start to get tired of your childish antics when I discover that charisma alone isn’t enough to sustain a healthy relationship, but I don’t say anything either. We’re not quitters. We tolerate each other, we fight over menial things and sometimes we don’t even know what we’re yelling about but damn we get good at making each other angry. This is when I learn to resent you.

We continue to celebrate the same anniversaries but without the same enthusiasm. We kiss out of habit not affection. We fuck, but you think about other people. I don’t think at all. My depression creeps back and I become even more distant, not that it really matters, because these days you don’t want to talk to me anyway. Kitchen knives disappear and you find them in the bathroom drawer but you don’t want to know. We’re both exhausted. You argue with me about the validity of depression as a mental illness, I double the dosage of my pills. You loathe weakness, you start to hate me for being miserable. You start to hate yourself for not knowing how to make me happy. This is when we know it’s over.

We try to sit down like mature, rational adults and have the awkward conversation. We should have said things like “it’s not you, it’s me”, or “I love you, I’m just not in love with you” etc. We could have lied and said “let’s stay friends” even though we both know we were never really friends. But we didn’t fall out of love at the same time, and so there was bloodshed. We leave out the important lies that would have sounded better, and scream the truth at each other till we run out. Just to be safe, we yell some terrible things we don’t really mean and never take them back. We think about each other in the years to come and wonder ‘how the fuck did I let that happen’. This is the closest you’ll get to an apology.


I am hungry for someone.

Not for the left over lust from too many shots of tequila at the end of a lonely night, when you throw your arms around the best looking stranger left in the bar and pretend to be satisfied, but every kiss turns to humiliation when morning comes calling. I am waiting impatiently for the person who is supposed to transform my life. I am starving.

Far too young to be having a midlife crisis, too old to be drifting so aimlessly.  I keep thinking maybe life will begin to make sense if I hit that next milestone, but it never does. I remember her scent, it clung to him like toxin, and I bit down on his promises till I drew blood.  Old mistakes still haunt me, old friends have become perfect strangers. We don’t say hello anymore, I miss that. I feel empty.

A man who used to love me with every fibre of his being, whose heart used to swing sideways at the sound of my name, has decided it is easier for us to never speak. I am inclined to agree that his decision is sensible, mature, reasonable, yet a part of me wonders if one day we’ll look back and wish we had put down our pride and remembered what was important. I refuse to admit I am no longer important to him. I still crave for validation.

Can you be broken yet unbent? Can you be strong even as you are falling to pieces? This is how I feel. Like a tree with all her branches hacked off, but still standing tall, my roots dug deep beneath the surface, safely breathing. I recall one grey Sunday, when I was feeling shattered. You found me lying on the floor, pills scattered near blood stains, memories you can never dig out of your mind. That is how I chose to stay, an ugly imitation of love, a gross obsession. I am insatiable.

I have forgotten what intimacy feels like. It is too easy to wrap your arms around a warm body, it is too hard to understand why you want to. It is too easy to trace the secret scars visible only in the dim lights of your bedroom, it is too hard to ask why I have them. It is too easy to fall in love with the spark in my eyes, it is too hard to stay when the light goes out. I feel temporary. I am famished.


If you don’t break my heart, I’m going to break yours. My mother never taught me how to love without leaving scars, and I’ve spent years gifting bruises to undeserving hearts. It won’t be your fault, but I probably won’t admit it’s mine either. The worst parts of you will fall in love with my cruelty.

You will call me at 2 AM asking me to come home and the blaring club music will drown out your desperation. When I come stumbling in at 4 AM with smeared lipstick that tastes like someone else’s skin you’ll wish you never met me. I’ll blame the alcohol and you’ll pretend to forgive, even though we both know better.

I’ll pretend to like black coffee at first to impress you. Three months later you’ll catch me adding milk and sugar and you don’t really notice. I’ll make your mornings better, but you won’t notice this either. When I leave, no one will make you coffee quite how you like it. It never tastes quite the same, and you always notice.

You’ll say I love you first and I’ll kiss you hard so I don’t have to lie out loud. You will interpret this the way you want to and when the time is right I will use it to make you hurt. It is easier to build mistakes on broken promises. It is hard to remember we made each other happy once.

The novelty of being with someone independent will wear off sooner than you think, and you’ll miss the feeling of being missed. You’ll wake up hungover on Sunday mornings and think about the girl with wide eyes who would lie in bed and text you at 5 in the morning, begging you to come home. You’ll miss her.

On our anniversary dinner I’ll catch you staring at the waitress the same way you used to look at me, and when this doesn’t bother me I’ll realise we both moved on but forgot to tell each other. She writes her number on the receipt like a giant cliche and you call her because so are you.

When I find her scarf misplaced victoriously in our apartment, you finally admit we misplaced our lives too. Four summers later the tan line around my finger fades enough for me to forget her name. Four summers ago you whispered her name instead of mine. I almost didn’t love you, you know. If only.

August 12, 2014


I feel disconnected, like a wire was cut without my permission and now I’m drifting into unknown territory.

It was a dream and nightmare all at once, the city danced and we swayed to the beat, but the stifling heat of this concrete jungle made it impossible for us to breathe.

I lit another cigarette on your balcony, my arms around your neck, watching the smoke trail up and the curls settle onto your washed up shirt. You kissed my neck and I whispered another lie because I didn’t want to spoil the moment. It just sounded better.

I watched strangers shuffle along the dirty streets lined with too much history they didn’t care for, their heads head high but defeat in their eyes because there’s no love in this city and it’s driving them crazy.

You lit another cigarette and by this time we were not simply strangers, but lovers by default. We were in the right place at the right time, just lonely enough, and wiling to lose ourselves in the friction. Hollow passion can taste so sweet, if only because they remind you of empty promises.

I saw myself reflected in windows full of ugly neon signs and I had painted myself neat. Dark chocolate eyes and black lipstick; I left bruises on your cheek. I told you not to get too close. I warned you not to love me.

I followed your darkness and played with your monsters, when I left I took them with me and you were too blind to notice. The rain fell soft and warm but it couldn’t wash away my sins, and the novelty of pretending to be lovers wore off by the time the neighbors turned off their lights.

Our hearts were miles apart and broken in different ways, but it felt good to feel skin on skin, to be chemicals reacting.


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