Was I born a masochist or did society make me this way?

Tag: thoughts


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.



Somewhere in between growing up and growing old, my life became a constant struggle between who I am and who I used to be. A part of me wants to be at peace and proud of myself for making it this far because lord knows this journey hasn’t been easy, then there’s this other part that knows I could be a better person but I no longer want to be.

The crazy part of me that he wanted to tame, the wildness that never went away, that part of me wants to disappear after graduation and go on a big adventure. But the sensible, logical coward in me would stay for the financial security and stability and I am watching myself become boring, so boring. I watched the child in me plant these seeds and waited patiently all these years for the flowers to grow but now that they’re blooming, I’m the one pulling them out.

I don’t fantasize about killing myself anymore but the petty part of me is still fuming and resentful for everything that’s happened, and sometimes when the rage slips out I am shocked I could ever contain this madness in the first place. I’ve grown to love my scars and be comfortable in my own skin, and I know that being alone isn’t the same as being lonely but god I miss touching you, I miss being touched.

I don’t know who finally killed the part of me that knew how to dream, but somewhere in between growing bitter and growing cold, the magic disappeared and I’m sick of waking up to nightmares. It’s as if my mind has been ripped apart and put back together so many times, you told me what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger but you forgot to mention being stronger is not the same as being whole. I will never be whole again.


I miss you, in a Sunday morning don’t wanna get out of bed because I dreamed about you and I think if I keep my eyes closed, your face might come back to me again kind of way. In a Friday night staying up till 3 AM and blushing as I read screenshots of our old messages kind of way. In a wasted Saturdays writing about what we could have been kind of way.

I miss you, the way that you could make me laugh till my belly was aching, and the way that your eyebrows would scrunch up when you had to wipe my tears away because you truly couldn’t bear to see me sad.

I miss you, whether it’s hot summer days, or cold winter nights huddled next to the fireplace, nothing I do now feels as right as our first spontaneous trip to the beach. You pulled me into the freezing water and silenced my protests with a kiss. We left mismatched footprints in the sand and that was the first of many sunsets we watched together.

I miss you, your calloused hands from playing the ukelele and the way they used to graze my skin; I used to be your favourite instrument. Your smile, that god damn charming smile that made life look easy, you smiled at me like I was your reason for living. You set my world on fire with that smile and I loved the way it burned. I laughed as black smoke filled my lungs and it all crumbled to ashes.

I miss you, your uncanny ability to cook everything to perfection, your extensive knowledge on every unimportant subject I could ever imagine, and the way you simply cruised through life, without ever questioning the absurdity of our existence. You were always meant to exist in this way, you were a drifter not a doubter, and you never intended to stay.

I miss you, in a I hate your fucking guts but I still want to kiss you a thousand times kind of way. In a I don’t know whether I want to slap you in the face or push you to a wall so I can make out with you kind of way. In an embarrassingly primitive, it makes me cringe to say your name kind of way. In a you hurt me terribly but I still fucking love you kind of way.


I want to be the girl with the brightest smile, the one who lights up his life. I want to start a fire in his heart and let it consume us both in the most beautiful flames. I am not a fleeting moment, not a fireworks display; I will burn slow and torrid and even his coldest memories will fade when I’m close. I have waited a long time for someone like him, men have traded their souls to the devil for a love like this.

I am not a fragile rose, easily bruised, and wilting without your care. I am the sun, the stars, the night. I’ve carved my own path in this world, my hands are rough and none of this is pretty, but every breath I take feels so good without you. You were not the end to my story, and your cruelty will not be written into my final chapter. In too many ways, I am ordinary. An ordinary girl living an ordinary life. But when I breathe, I am beautiful. When I breathe, I am starlight.

When I am gone, my bones will be here a little while longer to keep him company. My memories of our love affair will exist elsewhere, unseen, untouched, unheard, but felt. This love will show you redemption; this love will mend your regrets.


Lessons Learned

I have learnt that people are not made of straight lines but blurred edges, and though we break, we bend, we’re soft and brittle all at once and you could stretch me like a rubber band but I’ll still bounce back in the end.

I have learnt that intelligence is strong and cruelty doesn’t belong in my world, that harsh words reveal how helpless you really feel, and most of the things my mother told me were wrong.

I have learnt that not everyone will understand you and not every story needs to be told, that there will always be people who try to bring you down but their voices don’t mean anything if you hear what they’re not saying.

I have learnt that ocean waves can heal a soul better than the sun, that rainy days are just a good excuse to stay inside and cuddle with a book or someone you like.

I have learnt to ignore the men who try to buy me drinks at the bar but I am still waiting for a man who will make me tea in the morning, and I’ll smile even though I wanted coffee.

I have learnt to stop counting my mistakes, to take a deep breath when life gets too heavy and remind myself that all this is temporary, and this ride doesn’t have to be perfect to be worth it.

I have learnt that smoking might be bad for your health, but the stolen glances in between tapping the ashtray mean so much more, and it was always you who made me happy, not the nicotine rush.

I have learnt that love is not weak, nor loud, nor vain, and it’s more beautiful than the sunrise but it’s never easy. Love is changing, love forgets, and love learns to move on despite the hearts we break.


When you left me, did it feel like dying or did you feel alive for the first time? You wiped tears off my face and told me you hated seeing me cry, but I caught your smile when you thought I wasn’t looking. A part of you liked to see me suffer, didn’t you?

When you said you didn’t love me, I was sure that you were lying, or something had clouded your judgment and all I had to do was remind you what made you fall in the first place. I teased and taunted, bribed and begged, but you weren’t just leaving, you had already left.

When you called me a monster, was it like looking in a mirror or was it like seeing me for the very first time? I never took you for a fool but I didn’t want to call you a liar. I still catch myself defending you at times when there’s clearly nothing left to salvage. You cleaned me up only to find you didn’t like me sober.

When you said my name, it felt like coming home for the first time since he passed away. Something in your voice made me feel safe, the same way he always did, and I have not heard it anywhere since. But it didn’t take long for you to replace it with shorter versions like ‘babe’ and I should have noticed I was the only one you didn’t have time for. When you called me darling I should have remembered that only boys meant that sweetly, and you were a man. I was not going to quietly close the curtains to our play, I was going to break your world even if it took the last breath out of me. It’s been a while since someone fought back, hasn’t it? I refused to destroy my life for you, I did not lay down and worship your mistakes. I will not make excuses for your actions or romanticise your cruelty as the innocent acts of a lost boy. I will stand my ground. I will right your wrongs. This ship will not go down easy.


I hope you are not alone on this day, and I promise not to hold it against you for not thinking about me. I hope you have a warm body to keep you company, and you cook her breakfast in the morning before you break her heart. I hope her sleepy eyes remind you of better days and your dreams are peaceful without my burdens.

I am sorry for placing you on a pedestal and allowing you to continue your criminal ways. I fell in love with your potential but I never knew it was your curse. Now I know why you never made promises, and how little love can be worth.

You don’t forget, you don’t heal, not completely, not ever. But the pain dims, doesn’t it? One day you wake up and it’ll occur to you how long it’s been since those old wounds have hurt. Then before you know it you’ll fall in love again with someone who is nothing like me. She’ll be broken in different ways, but the difference is you’ll still love her in the morning. You’ll love her even when all her wounds are open and she’ll crumble under your kindness the same way I did.

Perhaps it’ll be easier for you to shed a tear when I’m gone than to pick up the phone and ask if I’m surviving. We like to pretend we have control, but at the end of the day we’re all as lost as each other, drifting along till we find someone who keeps us afloat, because life is less scary when you have someone to hold.

Maybe that’s why I keep your number on my phone when reason demands that I erase it. Maybe when you read these words you’ll understand that it was never over for me, and it never will be. Knowing this terrifies me to the core.

I think I stopped missing you a long time ago, but I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing who you used to be.  Fate has its own way of playing us for fools, even if what we had was only a cruel jape of some twisted mastermind who likes to pretend he’s Cupid, tomorrow I’ll still remember the smell of your hair and the taste of summer you left. 


The more I change, the more I stay the same. I’ve been listening to the same dozen songs for years, and they still remind me of the same people from more innocent days. Even though we don’t talk anymore and our paths never cross, the truth is, I spend more time missing them than anything else.

I still remember the boy who stole my first kiss, the perfect gentleman who carried me home when I was limping. I remember the time I screamed at him to leave and started crying as soon as he walked away. He came running back with an umbrella when it started to rain, still too angry to speak to me but still loved me enough to pull me into his arms when he saw me shivering.

I remember the first cheater I kissed, how soft her lips were and how good it felt to finally meet someone who understood what I was. We stayed up all night and I shared my darkest secrets, too lost in the moment to comprehend the complications of her marriage. She told me his flaws, her own shortcomings, and why she was leaving. She called him a mistake, and I wanted it to be true. Drunk on the night, we convinced ourselves it was only a bundle of paperwork and a matter of time before she could make us right. But when morning came and sober thoughts arrived, I knew that I was the mistake, and it was too late to avoid the hurt.

I remember the man I wanted to marry, the one who promised me everything, but stood tall as he tore my world apart, so proud of his handiwork that he began to boast of all the other hearts he’d collected. I remember falling asleep in his arms every night but waking up alone every morning because he was always one step ahead and I was forever chasing his shadows, growing tired and feeling cold.

I remember the fool who fell for the cheap dress and the witty banter. He brought me flowers on our first date and looked at me like he wanted to fall in love. He was a boy, just a boy, too naive to recognise all my faults even when I stopped hiding. A part of me dreamed of joining his charmed life, but the rest of me was afraid of losing the sadness that’s held me together for so long. I told him I needed to be alone for a while, but I’m a girl, just a girl, and I keeping forgetting; avoiding new scars doesn’t fix old aches.


When I was deep in my depression, I thought about suicide constantly. 

Wake up; should I kill myself today?

Eat breakfast; why am I still alive?

Go to class; why am I here?

Cross the road; hope the bus hits me.

Go home; grab a knife.

Sleep; hope it lasts forever. 

It was a battle every day, reminding myself what I had left to live for. When I looked around, there wasn’t very much. So I asked her, almost selfishly, to give me some hope. “What do you live for?”

She replied in her stunning accent, something I could never forget: 

As individuals we each have our own unique aura, and if you are close enough, compatible enough, and care enough to allow yourself to open up, you can feel the energy that flows around you, fusing together as our thoughts intertwine. Right now, being connected to you, is why I’m here. I’m here for you. I live for you. 

I didn’t understand her at the time, so I cried more and pretended I knew. But I finally understand now. It doesn’t matter how much people hurt you, how much pain they inflict, how many scars they leave, how many hearts they break. You could hate almost everyone, you could despise a few, they could deserve it, they probably do. But beyond all that, a simple gesture can remind us that human connection remains the most important thing to our existence. No matter how comfortable we are with ourselves, how happy we may be alone, we all crave someone to share that connection with. We all live for each other whether we like it or not. We are only human.

So if you’re reading this, I live for you. 


You know you’re in too deep when

You wish you had never met 

Because that meant the last one had treated them well

And they lived happily ever after


It’s the worst feeling
You would die without them
They could live without you


I really like Stoya.

Not just her intelligence, her classically pretty face, or her casual nakedness, but the whole combination. It just really works for her.

In perhaps the shallowest industry of the world, she’s managed to make her personality shine through, and collect a huge fan base by just being herself.

She’s broken the stereotype that the porn industry is made up of fake-boobed bimbos with nothing to contribute other than their nakedness on screen.

Obviously I’m not suggesting that all women who go into the ‘naked lady business’ are smart girls who thought it through, but people should respect their decisions regardless, and if and when they choose to quit the business, not make it a negative smirch on the rest of their lives.

I’m sure there are vile people in the porn industry who abuse unlucky women, just like anywhere else. But that’s exactly why people should cut the crap on ‘how old were you when you were sexually abused because why else would you do this’.

So whenever you find yourself thinking degrading thoughts about promiscuous women, just remember that you jerk off at home alone to the naked woman on the internet who is not only getting laid, but also getting paid.


My parents are offensively old fashioned. I’m sure you know the type.

“Even if I’m wrong, I’m right. Respect my authority because I’m older than you.”

It’s backfiring now because they’ve spoiled my brother over the years and now he’s reached his teenage rebellious phase, no longer their perfect little puppet.

As I sat in my room trying to drown out the yelling and ignore the tears, I started thinking back to when my own relationship with them first began to deteriorate. I suppose I’m the one to blame, for daring to draft my own personality.

It’s been 21 years and they still refuse to accept that I am my own person, with my own values. They can’t understand why I won’t change myself to conform to their idea of ‘right’, and resent me for no longer being the vacant child prodigy they used to parade around.


I know they’re not alone in this. Too many parents have this unrealistic idea of what their children should be – what they should look like, who they should date, what their career should be. It’s this ridiculous yet not uncommon mentality that parents own their children – “I provided for you, you owe me.”

If more parents would just let their kids live their own life, maybe this generation wouldn’t be so fucked up.