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.


Nothing could have prepared our generation for becoming so acutely aware of the successes and failures of everyone around us. Never before have we been so transparent in our disguises. Our lives on display in our social media prisons, this nightmarish system that consumes your time and leaves you feeling empty. None of us are half as happy as our status updates would like to pretend.

Perhaps the most difficult part is coming to terms with just how ordinary we are as individuals. To be reminded daily that you won’t be remembered, that history has no space for you, that none of us as as special as our teachers and parents led us to believe. We were not born extraordinarily beautiful, or outlandishly intelligent. We do not possess the charisma to charm love out of strangers nor the talent that attracts the attention we so desperately crave. Yet deep down we all yearn for affection, for love, for all the good in life that we were promised as children. From the moment we know that such joys exist we are doomed to never be content, never be satisfied with the present. Nothing will ever be enough.

Yet there are moments when the lights are shut and the stars are bright, and we are young and beautiful and alive. I’m laying next to you, I can hear your heartbeat and I am grateful to be breathing. There were moments when we kissed that I felt almost immortal.

Now I feel as if I am deteriorating. As if I have lost an integral part of myself and there are no clues on how to reclaim that part of my soul. It is not as dramatic as it sounds. There is no spectacle to behold. My heart has not been ripped in two yet I can feel it bleeding still. Know that I have bled for you.

There is not a cell in my body that does not miss you, though the conscious mind does what it can to soothe the pain. You’ve driven me to madness so effortlessly, caused me to abandon all logic, forced me to reevaluate my preconceptions of this life that I was living. I had become so consumed by being with you that I have forgotten how to exist on my own. It is not loneliness from the outside world that wounds me, but rather the loneliness from within that threatens to take control. There is a fine line between romanticism and foolishness and I tether on the edge, swaying by your breath. I am lost without you.



I’ve been selecting the archive button on every device that shows his name. It’s always hard to say goodbye to an old friend. You worry that no one will ever understand you as well as he did, and you would be right, no one will. It was a rare combination of wanting to know you because he found you intoxicating, and a natural intimacy that drew you close in the first place.

It was the right amount of incompatible for what it eventually became, a unique bond that always hinted at a little more, we were always a little too flirtatious for our own good. He would pretend not to notice as I partied away my sanity and would use euphemisms like “you’re too exciting for me” rather than confront my self destructive behaviour. He always knew when to bow out gracefully from a losing fight.

I pretended to be bored by everything he represented and I never let him know I think I could never deserve someone as good as he was. I watch him struggle to keep his distance as if something about me could be contagious. He was so risk averse that even witnessing it made him feel uneasy. I was too young to admit I was wrong, how could I ever be wrong. I was so sure I knew how to love, I was so sure I was making myself happy. It didn’t matter if the happiness was only ever temporary, if I could collect enough blocks of temporary happiness then I could pretend I was right all along. Every mistake, every heartbreak could be erased if I could just kiss the right lips, taste the right people, forget about yesterday and live for tomorrow.

She thinks I loved him once, albeit was a long time ago. More importantly, she thinks he loved me once, and that in itself was an unforgivable betrayal. Monogamy does not believe in grey areas. We both know enough to understand that what feels good is not enough of a foundation to build a life on, and we are both too terrified of the naked truth to be with someone who sees so clearly. You need the person who sees only enough to love you, not the one who sees all and loves you despite. That sort of love burns out the moment your faults begin to outweigh your redeeming qualities and they will resent you for becoming yourself.

I know I loved him once, for a few hours when we laid in bed together and he wrapped his arms around me like I had always belonged there, and he kissed me the way I always wanted to be kissed, and he showed me what peace should look like. I knew I could hurt him then, with my carelessness, my manic episodes, my unwillingness to conform. My utter devotion coupled with my inability to be faithful would confuse and terrorize him. However passionate we could be would only be matched by the excruciating pain when he comes to realise that some fires cannot be contained, some people cannot be tamed.



Everything is perfect but I feel terrible. I have everything I need, but it’s not enough. I see the world through rose tinted glasses and there are moments I want to blow my brains out.

I’ve started smoking again. The narcissist in me trying to find the romanticism in dying young. Drinking more whiskey hoping that will make the words pour out, finding there is none because once again I’m empty. I find people strange. I find myself stranger. I want to be alone but I can’t stand being lonely. I want to be loved but I’m never good at it myself.

What could be more sobering than kissing someone for hours not out of passion but because they’re there? What could be lonelier than three tangled bodies out of sync? We try so hard to be close but the distance is louder than anything else.

When we’re young we drink to forget the pain. As we get older we drink to remember it. Those moments of excruciating agony that we thought would make or break us, are now the only moments worth remembering. When the high wears off and you realise you’re far more sick of pleasure than of pain. The pain is the only part of you that still feels real. It’s the only thing that reminds you you’re still living.

I suspect for the most part, writers simply enjoy hearing the sound of their own voice. They want an excuse to hold a voice recorder and wander around the house speaking out loud to themselves and not be called crazy for it. This is why solitude brings out the best in artists. Only when you feel safe in the knowledge that no one is watching you, can you create something you would share with a million strangers.

We throw around euphemisms and attempt to disguise our narcissism as a yearning to be heard, to feel understood. But the truth is we’re simply selfish. I just want your attention. I want you to hear my story, understand my grief, my pain. I want you to know my mistakes and love me anyway. Love me as I am, forgive me for all my transgressions.

I am as stubborn as they come. I refuse to change, even when I know it’s good for me. I can hurt you and love you in the same breath. I will save you only so I remember how to break you again. I know I am the type to leave people, so I am terrified of being left. I think the worst of everyone, because I am the worst of them all. I’ve said goodbye before, I know the words. You look into my eyes again, you hear them say ‘stay, stay, stay’.


What’s the worst that can happen with a story? You meet the right person and everything is perfect until it’s not. You love each other until you can’t stand the sight of each other. You miss them most on the days you’re not supposed to. Everyone has lived this story. Tell me how yours is different.

Tell me how you wake up shaking some nights because you felt her hands on your skin again and you almost cried out her name.Tell me how the first time you saw her cry it felt like someone had punched you so hard in the chest you couldn’t remember how to breathe.

“She used me”, you liked to tell people that, as if it justified all your selfishness. You forget that everyone uses everyone. It’s not what you really mean. You mean to say she used you more than you used her. The scales were tipped in her favour and that made you uncomfortable. You were accustomed to getting the sweeter deal. A part of you feels wounded still.

“He broke me”, she liked to claim, as if that excused all her unkindness in the end. She was always quick to dismiss her own misdemeanors, you had that in common. She could turn the pages in a heartbeat and forget your name in the blink of an eye, yet hold you to every sin you’ve committed since the dawn of time.

“I lost her”, you’d mumble to yourself at 2am with whiskey coated breath and a heavy heart, the only time you’d ever allow yourself to feel a little remorse, when you’re sure no one would catch you. Just for a second you wish she could be in the room, so that you could feel her presence, though you know it would not bring you the same calm, you know she would no longer look at you like you were the sun.

I should have known better. I should have loved him less. I should have let go when my feet were still touching ground. I should have talked less. I should have said more. I knew always that it would end in heartache but I was convinced that I was strong enough to love him despite it. Such is the addictive nature of self harming. You can put down the knives but you never really stop fashioning your own injuries.

If I had to verbalize what I believe accounts for the failure of most of my romantic relationships, it’s the fact that I cannot bear love’s ageing. I cannot stand the dissolution of the honeymoon phase. As soon as the vacation, the electrifying vitality, the rapture of meeting someone new fades, its a kind of death practice. You die a little. When enthrallment dissipates, you have a moment of profound tragic realization that everything passes, that our greatest ecstasies are imbued, are cast upon by a shadow of dread, of knowing that this will pass, that this will end.

Jason Silva


I’d hate for you to think I’m still writing about you. I’d hate for you to know I’m still thinking about you. I don’t know whether to call it weakness or insanity, to miss someone who has been gone for longer than they were ever around, to wish for a life that would have invited more pain and heartache than I could even imagine. The grass is always greener.

I looked you up again just to read your writings. Something I never bothered doing before because I thought your essays were boring. Now it’s the only connection I have left, your boring way with words. It was always a pleasure talking to you, and I miss that. I’m sorry I forgot that we all have our moments of weakness, I’m sorry I refused to let you have yours. In that moment you lost me. In my moment I lost you. We were never meant to be found.

I’m sorry I invited myself into your life so bizarrely and refused to leave without leaving destruction behind. I wanted to paint the walls bloody so they’d think twice before following. It was a warning to you to not cut so deep. I’m sorry it took so long for me to pick myself up. I could do it again now with all the grace you’d wished for, but it’s never easy to tear apart something you built with love. I’m still learning how to live in the relics.

I think part of me suspects that it will never again be the same. I will never again leave my heart wide open, I will never again kiss without doubt, I will never again love the way I loved you, so devastatingly certain, so sure of a happy ending. Something so intricate was broken inside the day you said goodbye, something delicate and irreparable. Now I see only farewells, be it from betrayal, time, or death, it all ends the same. But I have never been good at letting go. I am still hoping to say hello.


I fell in love with you in the dark. Eyes shut, heart wide open, full of hope and a gentle sadness. I knew new beginnings meant leaving something behind, but I carried my baggage to your doorstep, half expecting you to shut the gate. You greeted me all smiles and shyness, with no judgement and only kindness.

I fell in love the moment I stopped being shy around you. I thought that signaled the end, as it always has in the past. But then came the moments I still felt shy around you, then came all the ways you made me feel new. There was something about the way you lived that made the mundane aspects of an ordinary life no longer banal and depressing. It’s in the way you touch, the way you kiss, the way you loved.

It’s the moments when we’re lying in bed together and my arms are wrapped around you way too tight. It’s the moments when you think I’m sleeping and you sneak a kiss only to be embarrassed when you catch me smiling. It’s the time you played me a song that sounded like love, and that was the moment I knew there may be others like you, but I would never meet another like you.

It happened so suddenly, one day my life consisted only of you. Sometimes I think I must have loved you before, maybe a few lifetimes ago, because I don’t know how else to explain the familiarity. You were always there, always on my mind. It was a love I could assemble, a love that was easy to reciprocate, a feeling of being so understood that words were unnecessary. A freedom to be myself, that I had never considered possible. Everything else became background noise, all I wanted to hear was your voice. Everyone else could be forgotten, all I could see was you. Everything that came before was mere infatuation, I have never felt love like this before.


I have fought long and hard with myself over this, and I’ve yet to come to a satisfactory conclusion. Maybe it’s the fact I grew up reading books where love came in many forms, where stories were set in an era where polyamory was the norm, so I never questioned that one could love many and really mean it. Perhaps I saw how easy it was for jealousy to destroy people, and I wanted to erase that word from my dictionary altogether, which I have failed time and time again. But since the first time I said those words and meant them, I never felt at ease with monogamy. It never came naturally to me, it went against all of my instincts.

I often wonder whether it’s foolishness or stubbornness that drives us to go against our biological instincts. I find it laughable that people believe they can fight biology in the first instance. I find it dishonest to pretend that once we are in love, we no longer find beautiful people attractive, and we are forced to lie to and withdraw ourselves, for fear of forming a connection with an outsider and destroying what we have. I find it a pity that we are forbidden to love more, as if one tarnishes the other, as if more love could make what is existing feel less. It seems absurdly selfish to want to possess someone so entirely and declare your love by severing their ties with all others.

Yet I can’t help but find it deeply romantic that there are those who do not waver in their faith, who remain devoted till their deathbed to their one and only. Those who remember only one smile, one laugh, one body, who never wanted to share, never had to, and never will. There are times when I wish I could be more like them, and I wonder if something is broken inside me. I wonder if there is something wrong with the way I love, whether I ask for more because I know that I will never be enough. I crave for a love unblemished and so deeply satisfying that no distractions are required.

But I then imagine a world where my actions are not dictated by a lover’s restrictions, and every connection has the possibility of meaningfulness. I can’t decide whether it would be a blessing or a curse to live with so much freedom and possibility, whether it would dilute the sensations, or dampen the experience of being alive. I so desperately want to love and be loved without boundaries. I’m intrigued by the perversely romantic notion that I could go anywhere, be with anyone, kiss whomever I wish, but come back to the person who feels like home at the end of it all, and know that nothing has changed in the way that we feel for one another.

I want colorful chapters, memorable characters, but one love affair to hold me steady. I want harmless flings, candlelit dinners with forgettable faces, the thrill of discovering you have something in common with someone that you’d never expected. I want all this but to fall asleep in your arms only, wake up to your face only. I see eternity in your eyes only. I want to touch and taste many, but to love you only. I am selfish beyond your understanding. I am hopeless at this game.



After all this time, perhaps I owe you an apology. In my efforts to prove that I was the most injured, I forgot that we only met because of your kindness. I rewrote our story and neglected to mention that once upon a time, you were my prince, and you healed my wounds before replacing them with new ones.

In my eagerness to hurt you, I called you the worst things I could think of. I wanted to give you a taste of my medicine, so you’d never forget me. I chose to be childish, I decided if you weren’t going to wake up to me every morning, then you could at least think about me on the nights you couldn’t sleep, when it becomes hard to breathe and you wonder if I ever learned how to be happy alone.

I know that her smile doesn’t tug at your heartstrings, her tears will never bring you to your knees, and you don’t think you’ll ever love again but you never cared for it much in the first place. Love was always more of a luxury to you than a necessity. In the back of your mind you always saw me as a liability.

But I still miss you so much that it makes my heart ache when I picture someone else sleeping next to you, waking up to your smile and kissing you good morning. I’m not constantly falling apart anymore but I can still count the pieces missing.

At the time, no one else’s pain was comparable to mine, now I know that they all are.

At the time, I didn’t believe you when you said ‘we always hurt the ones we love‘. Now I know this to be true.


I have never been very good at saying no to myself. I’ve always lacked discipline, whether it was piano lessons or that last piece of cake, I always chose the easier option. I would conveniently ‘forget’ to practice, I would eat the last piece of cake and tell myself it was better than having an eating disorder. I pretended my lack of control was something endearing, something that made me easy to be around, easily humored, easy to please.

I’ve never been good at facing reality, of accepting it at face value. Denial comes much more naturally than accepting that I could live a life dull and null of purpose, accepting that I could be just as ordinary as the people I deem to be forgettable. But no matter how much I may crave to be heard, I am just as boring as the people whose names I can’t remember, just as cruel as the people I consider despicable, and just as foolish as the people I have scorned in the past. I have been the narrator and I have been the protagonist. But that wasn’t enough, the attention seeker in me wants to play every part. I want to be the victim, the villain, the heartbroken, the heart-breaker. I want to live every life that is possible, I want to explore every avenue. I want to break all of the rules.

There is a part of me willing trade an ordinary life for an extraordinary love, a will that you cannot reciprocate. There was a time when I kissed you and felt an eternity had passed, as if I had been with you since the beginning of time and will be with you until the end. There was a time when I looked into your eyes and saw galaxies and all the forces of the universe could not tear us apart. There will come a day when I draw my last breath and your heart skips a beat when mine stops beating, and you’ll know to find me again, in the next life, or whatever comes after.



I think what saddens me the most about truly desperate people is the sobering truth that there is no one left in this world who cares for them. It surpasses social hierarchies and class systems, we simply live in different realities. I know for me personally there are people who love me enough that even if I went down the wrong path, if I screwed up unimaginably, if I committed inexcusable crimes, they would still try to pull me back to my feet, until I found myself again. I know people who would give me second chances even if I didn’t deserve them, simply because they remember a time when I did. I know this because I feel the same way about them.

To know that there are people out there who don’t have this, who either never had it or no longer have it, makes my heart break a little. To imagine that it is possible to completely alienate yourself from the seven billion other inhabitants of this planet, to have wronged every person who ever trusted you until they no longer tolerated your existence in their lives, is the most depressing life I could fathom.

This does not mean I feel like I have a free pass to fuck up, to hurt others, quite the opposite. It makes me want to work harder, to be good to my people, to share my happiness with them, and put myself in a better position to help if I ever need to.

When I was little my mother used to point out those who led less fortunate lives, and forewarn me that if I didn’t study hard enough, I would end up just like them. I hope that if I ever have children of my own I could teach them to work hard because if they do, they could make life better for those people. That they can find meaning in life by making the world a more beautiful place.

It can be difficult to see past ourselves when we’re lost in the hustle and bustle of the city, when we’re busy crunching numbers and paying bills, but try not to lose sight of what is really important. To be able to share a good life with someone you love is such a blessing. To see them smile, to kiss their face, to hold them when you’re sleeping, those precious moments when the lights are out and you can hear their heartbeat. To stop chasing happiness and be happy in the present moment is a luxury not many can afford.

I see the big picture for the first time because of you. I see children, I see laughter, I see family, and I see love. I can feel it in the air when you say the words, I can lose myself in a kiss. I can imagine a life filled with joy and kindness, I am no longer terrified of boredom. I am no longer terrified of anything. Because I love you, I fucking love you.


I did something that’s either going to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made or one of the dumbest, not that it really matters because we’re just some talking monkeys on a big rock that will one day explode and everyone will die and no one will know we ever existed. So why does life matter so much when we know how it ends? Why do we read stories about things that have never happened and never will, no matter how many alternate universes we wish there may be? Why do we pretend these rules and inventions really make a difference on the grand scale of things, when will we ever learn how to stop hurting each other?

On a grand scale we massacre our own kind and hunt other species to extinction. Even in what is considered the more civilised parts of the world we still cheat and steal and rob others of possessions and affection. We lie to each other and ourselves on a daily basis, we rape and plunder under more legal pretenses, we collect and horde wealth and we never feel like it’s enough.

Our capacity for greatness is overshadowed by the cruelty we administer upon the lesser fortunate. To those who live in parts of the planet that are savaged by warfare we simply shake our heads and pretend not to notice they drew the short straw. We believe in Gods and we hate them, we pray and we desecrate the holy, we are sinners and we worship saints with no religion.

We judge others for the same mistakes we have made or wish we could make. We take too much for granted, we forget life was never supposed to be easy. No one ever escaped this world without tears, without grief, without heartache. No one is ever doing as well as they are good at pretending. No one is really whole anymore but we don’t talk about the wounds that are still bleeding.

We are afraid when others get too close and we’re too accustomed to denial of the truth being temporary. We all think we’re meant for something greater than a tiny cubicle and paper pushing bureaucracy but none are brave enough to call for revolution. That takes patience that takes courage and most of us are too fond of television and we’d never consider ourselves couch potatoes but the world doesn’t hurt us quite enough to warrant any changing.

We are young but not so young anymore and soon we’ll be not young at all and life will have passed us by before we notice it’s a different generation calling out our mistakes. You will have children and you will sometimes regret it or you will choose to save another from the pain of living and always wonder what it might have been like and whether you’d be less lonely in your old age if a chance at being selfish hadn’t seemed so appealing.

The girl who is locked in a storage container screaming at the top of her lungs for help will be sold until her body rots and her soul is putrid. Her parents’ pleas will be lost on deaf ears or they might be the ones who profit and we shake our heads at the injustice but we don’t break the wheel. When she draws her last breath the world won’t falter, people won’t come to her star with flowers and prayers. Life goes on.

We form cute little non profit organisations and shout about the kindness we bestow upon society by caring and we set up even more for the added benefits of tax evasion. It’s enough to drive a rational person crazy. It’s enough to kill those with too much empathy, and we inevitably end up losing all those who do. The more unkind you can train yourself to be, the larger your chances for survival in this concrete jungle.

The girl who was born in a boy’s body will wonder if God made a mistake and kinder souls will tell him God never makes mistakes and this too, shall pass. There will be few who understand and even fewer who understands. There will always be stares of the wrong kind there will always be words that are unkind but you remind yourself that others did not come this far for you to be hiding.

The boy who made a mistake when he was sixteen will see 20 years of a jail cell and in the last 8 his mother stops visiting. After two he learns how to fight after four he witnesses death and by the time he walks out those doors again he’s a trained cog in the machine that never ends, we would never truly abolish slavery. We ban plants and prescribe narcotics, we discover flying and not long after we learn how to dispense weapons from the sky. Killing is much easier to ignore when the numbers are too large to comprehend and the pictures are censored for your own protection.

You want to be better than this but you’re not. You want to destroy the foundations but you’re part of the status quo. You want to take the right pills and snort the right powder so it’ll all stop hurting, but too much of that will kill you too. I tell you she kissed the poison she looked like an angel and his heart stopped beating for a second, then I watched her shatter. Don’t come any closer to this glass.





Teach me how to fall out of love again. Rewind the tapes, swallow the darkness, the lonely nights, the dinners for one and empty bottles of wine stacked up on the kitchen counter. Snuff out the scented candles, watch the roses wilt, take my pills on time but only half of the time. My head is pounding and my hands are shaky again and no phone numbers saved in favourites to call against the deafening quiet.

Delete the photos, the messages, remove the love notes stuck to the fridge by magnets I found on holiday when I was missing you. Forget the pillow talk, the sweet whispers, the smell of your hair, the way you like to run your fingers down my spine, I refuse to hear your heartbeat.

We’ll walk in opposite directions, go back to our own homes. You’ll forget the way coffee should taste and go back to spiking yours with too much sugar. I’ll go back to filling mine with too much cream and we’ll both stay unhealthy in our preferred ways only this time I won’t be there to nag you into calling me crazy.

Let go of my hand, cross the street before looking and hope today is your lucky day. Watch the leaves fall in Autumn, don’t think about our first kiss, our lips never touch, you never feel the tingle of my passionfruit lip balm. Untangle my hair from your sink, wash your sheets until you can’t remember the smell of my shampoo and throw away the over-sized shirts I used to wear to sleep.

Tell her we were no more than sweaty bodies tangled in summer nights, that it was more lust than it was ever love, that you only called me baby because you didn’t care to remember my name. Wipe away the tears I never shed for you, rip up the concert tickets we never bothered to book, throw away the ultimatums we never laid on the table, bury the happy ending that was never written. What never was will never hurt you again.


I remember when he never loved me. This was before we had met. He was just another nameless boy who existed at the same time as I did, but our lives never collided. He kissed many girls but he never loved them back. They all loved him. He thought he loved one, or at least he really really wanted to. He wanted to so much that he had her name imprinted onto his ankle, in case he forgot to love her. He never forgot, because he never loved her.

I remember when he always loved me. This was the first time I sneaked into his bed and told him I couldn’t sleep. I could sleep, everyone sleeps eventually. But he knew what I really meant. He put his arm around me and that was the beginning of every bad decision we ever made together. Every secret smile, every sordid kiss, every sinful night that ended with messy sheets and knotted hair, I remember. He remembers too. He hadn’t planned on loving me, but he started waking up in the mornings with a smile on his face. He started saying ‘good morning’ like he meant it. He started to prefer coffee the way I made it. He always loved me and he didn’t know how to stop. Love can be dangerous, he knew this. I never knew this then. Now I always know.

I remember later, when he never loved me. This was when my head had gone bad again and I could no longer see the sun. I started to draw red lines all over my body and I was never pretty, I was always sad. He started kissing other girls again and it was easy because he never loved me. He felt trapped but too trapped to tell anyone or do anything to free himself. I learned it is possible to be tangled together with a person yet still feel lonely. We kissed each other less but when we did, we left bruises. When he finally found the courage to be worse at lying, I slit his throat and buried him under the sea. It was easy, because he never loved me.


I wanted to remember all the shades of the ocean, my reflection in the waters, the feel of the wind on my skin, the music that mimicked our heartbeats. I wanted the moment of absolute content to last forever.

I wanted to believe that for once, nothing was missing. But I glanced at her eyes and saw a sadness that broke the peace. I felt an emptiness seep through her that no amount of laughter or substance could appease.

She asked me what else is there to do when you’ve lost your way and the light which used to guide you home shines no longer. She told me she danced to his heartbeat and now her feet no longer touch the ground, every step feels like torture. What do you do when you find yourself alone again and you don’t remember how it happened. When memories begin to play tricks on you and you wonder if you were ever happy. When time begins to chase you and you forget who you’re running from. She whispered through crooked lips that it’s hard to smile when he’s not here to hold me. She said it hurts so bad I’m always on the verge of crying. She looked up and smiled the saddest smile I had ever seen.

What do you do when you lose your soulmate except watch your heart get broken over and over again every single day and you ache to hear his voice but you’re terrified of listening to the words you’ve saved. You wonder whether he’s in a better place but you curse every deity you know for stealing him early. You tell yourself everything happens for a reason but easy comfort isn’t comforting. You blame yourself for not knowing how to move on, and you blame him for not letting you. You feel his ghost following wherever you go, you hope he never leaves.

What can you say when the words I love you feels like a knife to your heart and every “it’ll get better” or “you’ll be okay” feels like a twist in your wound. How do you wave away empathy how do you explain that nothing makes the pain go away and you’d do anything to reverse time just to see his face again. She climbs back under the covers and clutches his old tshirt like a lifeline and I watch her bleed and bleed. I tell her darling, in time, all wounds heal. She whispers yes, but in time, all scars ache.