Sometimes it’s easy to forget I am a living breathing human.
Occasionally I feel like a pork chop in the butcher’s window, just waiting.
Have I ever told you being single is harder at the weekend?
Me saying “don’t get it on my face” made it instantly soft.
I’m sorry if I should be less vocal with any complaints. I’ve never been an extra-marital fuck.
My pleasure is often impeded by wondering what your kids look like, so please stop assuming I can come on demand.
Have I ever told you being single is like being trapped in a room with yourself? And there are no windows to gaze out of, only piles of dirty clothes and empty voids.
I want to get sucked into a portal, eat ice cream on the beach, and then go fuck something.
It’s hard to stop wondering why you haven’t called.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll go throw myself off a bridge to check I’m still alive, if that’s not too dramatic for you.
Maybe you’ll stop being an arsehole and we can all move on.
I am wearing a masculine shirt with socks and sandles and I am not giving a flying fish cake no matter how stupid that sounds.
I am thinking about you in a Canada Goose jacket and nothing else.
Where is my ability to think straight when your body is near mine and we are reaching for the kettle?
Is it possible for two people to make a cup of coffee together in exactly equal measure?
I am looking out the window at the rain and thinking about your wet-look hair.
I wish the last time we fucked we weren’t listening to Placebo. I wanted you to think about your hands around my throat instead of your seventeen year old daughter. That’s how hard becomes soft.
I am the wet flannel that slipped off your towel rack.
We stood up and measured ourselves against everything we could find. We measured the tips of our fingers to the points of our elbows and compared them to the panels in the wooden doors, lining them up precisely; edging palms up, straightening each ulna. We took the edges of each eye and we spun and spun until we knew exactly how many Mississippi’s it took eye to eye around the backs of our living minds. How tall are you compared to this fern? Here, let me place your finger in the crack of the wooden floorboard. It’s but a fingernail wide; the baby, that is. Where is your nose in relation to this light switch? We compared ourselves to the world and this we did every Sunday; Our only way to distinguish between life and death.
I wish I could draw your body,
With the tattoo on your chest
And the one on your arm.
It reminded me of everything I once wanted;
Everything I once yearned for.
It pushed me back to youth.
All that joy of Christmas lights
Took me back to last year, bounding
Around as if new to treating
My senses to your smell; fleeting
Cascading fireworks in the night sky, holding
Hands and hearts beating, bleeding
New and old you are seeing that
Somewhere in here, I to you am freeing.
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.
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.