But I’ve always been an angry drunk.

It’s frustrating. Like the reoccurring dream where I try to remove a garment and it snaps back on. Don’t you get it?  I just want to remove my dungarees.

There are questions inside of questions. Tiny questions hiding inside big questions like why do I exist like this and should I eat less meat? I shout the questions to the abyss and nothing comes back. I am Zack Braff, Peter Sarsgaard and Natalie Portman. I am shouting in the rain in a bin bag, every day, inside myself. Yanking the dungarees, losing parts of myself.

And every day it’s total annihilation. Drunk and sad, and sex with married men and drugs and shrugging and 2am messages to the man who never, ever loved me. And I’m empty and I’m lost and I wish it were a game of hide and seek. I just want to be found.

But I’ve always been an angry drunk.

Dirty, filthy.

I can’t come if you tell me to. Something about the words makes it filthy and I’m transported. Girls are flashing their assholes and biting their lips somewhere and I’m dry as a corpse now.

There was a time I wanted to have a baby with you until the assholes, and the lip biting, and the blowjob history, and the trust smashed in like a corner shop window, midwinter.

Don’t you know I’m not present. I’m no present for anyone. I’m a bored housewife without the house or the wife part. Waiting for the postman to ring the door bell and sort me out. Send in that long-awaited rush of blood. Give me a hit. Pull me apart, shine up the rust, and put me back together.


You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. It’s just so out of this world! It’s hard to bring myself to even say the words.

You beg me. You say please. Please tell me your story, you say. I won’t tell anyone. 

I can’t tell you! I say. I wouldn’t even be able to describe it right. It’s impossible! You couldn’t possibly understand, I say as I giggle.

Just try me, you beg. I can’t even imagine. It must be such a story!

It’s just so crazy, I’m not sure what to say. What a story it is. Such a burden to hold.

And it goes back and forth like this until one of us dies.

Every Day I Delete You

Read me a bedtime story

I know you do it well

It’s called practice.

Tell me I’m your baby

I’ll suck my thumb

I’ll call you daddy.

Take me

Take me

Take me over your lap

Use your hand.

I want you to fuck me.

I want to hear you tell your wife about me.

Where did you learn to be so sure?

You could sell salt back to the sea and it’d be happy.

Shh, don’t.

Don’t tell me again

You’re away home

Door open

Kisses on three foreheads

While I betray my best friend’s trust

and stray.

Dear heart, you are cold now.

Alone on the stairs and smoking

I think about your room and I picture your house

And I place my objects among your walls

And I tell you about my granny;

She’d be turning.

Your name rattles round my head on the regular




I mouth the syllables in slow motion

And I pout my lips

And imagine them around your cock

And I see those soon-to-be-threaded eyebrows bobbing above my cunt in a house that’s not mine

And I worry.

A victory dance above the slow fade out,

My blue valentine.

Douse yourself in aftershave,

Mask the sex we just had

And then tell me about your wife again.

Tell me about feeling wanted

Not wanted

Tell me about how much you want me

Don’t want me, please.

I batten down the hatches

On my ruby red heart

As I wipe your come off my stomach

Watching it glisten and trickle

As I ache

As I tell myself to switch it off

As I tell myself to forget it all.

Return to the bedtime story baby

But skip to the bitter end.

Every day I delete you.

Someone I used to love.

Someone I used to love is almost skipping down the steps at Waterloo bridge at sunset.

Someone I used to love is peering through the gaps in the stairs at me and smiling.

Someone I used to love embraces me like an old friend; The oldest of friends.

Someone I used to love is buying me drinks.

Someone I used to love is suggesting a quick bite to eat.

Someone I used to love is buying more drinks.

Someone I used to love is reminiscing about the past; the same stories as always.

Someone I used to love is getting drunker by the minute.

Someone I used to love is skipping down the road with me arm in arm.

Someone I used to love is laughing with me and I am laughing more than I have in a long time.

Someone I used to love is leaning in and lingering near my face in silence.

Someone I used to love says don’t cycle home, you’re too drunk, come stay at mine. 

Someone I used to love is the last thing I think about when i go to sleep that night and lots of nights that follow. 

Someone I used to love could have been my forever love, once upon a time