Just Get Through

At first you told yourself that all you had to do was get through Christmas, your birthday, just get through summer, and you’ll be fine. But your thesis was about him, so you told yourself, you’re only thinking of him because of your thesis; when you finish it, you’ll be fine. And then it was, once you get to Greece for summer, you’ll be fine. And then you came back, and by then you were saying, one year, just one year; after December 16th you’ll be fine. You thought twelve months was ample time to get used to not having someone. That was naïve.

You’ve become better at taking care of yourself. When you’re feeling down, you’re extra kind. You take as many showers as you need to feel clean. You light incense. You stroke your own hair. You remind yourself that you are a decent human being. You put on red lipstick. You make yourself pretty on the outside, and usually the inside follows. But some days, you still drink in the afternoon. You still make yourself smoke to avoid eating. You still tell yourself again and again, like a vicious refrain, that he just didn’t love you enough (even if it might not be true).

You have a hard time letting go of things. You have boxes of memorabilia—tickets, notes, corks, Mentos wrappers. You have hundreds of journals. You sift through memories, cutting yourself on them again and again.

The truth is you don’t think you get over anything at all. You just let time work its magic, let life fill you up with other things, other friends and loves and experiences until there is more of them than what hurts. The truth is that you are not over him. You have just become better at forgetting to remember him.

This morning she said, “It’s just that other people are better at faking it,” and you wonder if it’s true, if other people are just as overwhelmed by loss and are just really good at not letting it spill over.

It’s something you hate and love about myself, this capacity to love. To be so familiar with heartbreak that it doesn’t deter you from loving. You love so many people and have so many people that love you. More than your share. More than him, you suspect. More than a lot of people. But somehow it is you that feels alone, you that lugs around this big bag of loss. You don’t love people less when they hurt you. You might decide not to keep them around but you never stop loving them. This is a gift, you suppose. Not everyone can love unconditionally.

Sometimes you think that maybe you’re stuck because he hasn’t let go of you either. But the truth is that some things are always unfinished. Endings don’t always sever. This whole year has been eclipsed by your energies—his and yours—ripping apart. Violent, like two dogs tearing a cat in two. You are both dogs in this situation, both aggressive with ego and fear. Sometimes you can ache for answers so badly that the unfairness of it has you clinging to hope. This can’t be how it ends. But it is. But it was.

And it doesn’t matter that you’ve changed for the better, that this break-up turned you inside out in the most remarkable way. That it taught you to love yourself. That it taught you to rely on yourself first and then on others. That it created the space for wonderful women to come into your life. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t make you happy or that you know very well he can’t be the man you need. It doesn’t matter that he is so good at breaking your heart, at finding new ways to do it, even a year later. It doesn’t matter that you value yourself now and are very aware of how much more you deserve. You can be over someone and still love them. You can move on and still love them. You can not want someone back and still love them. They can tell you that that they have nothing to say to you that they can’t be friends with you that they haven’t been in love with you for a long time (‘I thought you knew that’) and you can still love them.

In your stronger moments, you are impressed with your heart. Your vulnerable, battered, stubborn heart that loves so deeply it takes years to heal. And one day you will be over him. Just get through Christmas, your birthday, just get through summer, and you’ll be fine. (But you suspect you’ll always love him.)


This Song is Called “I Only Think About You When I’m Sad”

Intimacy. It’s what I crave and also what terrifies me the most.

A friend says: “I’ll be friendly towards him. But if you want me to punch him in the face, I will.”

I have learnt to love from my mother and she loves like a lion. (How do lions love?)

Fear does not protect us. It is walking around a strange house at night–barefoot, blind, scared. Then sun will not come up until we’re comfortable with the darkness. Or, the sun will come up, but the night will always follow, so we must learnt to feel safe in the dark.

A friend says: “If you’re devastated, be it. There is no beauty or freedom in holding it in.”

You have to live without love, learn not to need it, in order to live with  it.

We feel better just by being with each other. I guess that’s called love.

“We have a lot of brothers we never had.”

“Asking someone to love you is listening to your heart’s desire. Pride is how you pick yourself up afterwards.”

Telling a cat nuzzling a book, “You can’t get affection from a book,” then, amending that statement…”If you can’t read.”

The key to controlling time is to think about it– or not.

We never stop loving anyone or fall out of love completely. It fades but can never disappear. Or the you that loved them gets smaller as you evolve and change. But the you that loved them will still always exist, even as a small, forgotten room in the mansion of your morphing soul

It is possible to be happy with the thought of past distress. Surviving trauma, and finding you still have the ability to laugh and love afterwards, means everything will be okay, always.

How many people have we walked by again and again in various suburbs or cities or even countries, and we just don’t know because we don’t know each other?

Sometimes we are better at playing the role of ourselves than actually being ourselves.

Lips are so much more intimate than tongues.

We cannot support equality if we do not include ourselves.

Qualities that turn me on

1. brilliance

2. generosity (of spirit, of wallet, of self)

3. power. confidence.

4. laughter (to do and induce)

5. comfort in non-conformity

6. good manners– the little things. goodness.

7.  loyalty* (this includes fidelity)

8. affection. affection. desire.


I am a puppy with love but rarely meet people that excite me.

“I fell in love the way you fell asleep; slowly, and then all at once.” YES.

You learn not to need people.


Because now I can’t see glitter without getting a paper-cut on my heart. There was a piece of metallic ribbon in my hallway that I stomped on. There was a sparkle on my temple and he smiled and licked his finger to get it off and at first I smiled too but then I got that paper-cut-sting. He tries to make a joke, he says, “Well, now we can both hate glitter,” but I’m not laughing, not even a little.

And now the number fourteen makes me sick, just because that’s when it happened. Because fourteen is now the number for “when you’re happy and naive and asleep people will be out there fucking you over”. And it’s been a month, exactly a month, and I don’t know why it took so long but it finally hit me late last night so this fourteen feels like last sixteen when I found out. 

And suddenly, the last thirty days, it’s everywhere. It must have been there all the time, I just never noticed because it was never part of my real. But every day now, something, something, will karate-kick a paper-cut on my heart. And it hurts in a way that is shapeless and overpowering, and all I can do is sit still, as if the pain is too much water, and moving, even a little, will spill it all out. But then again, I know that this is too big to come out all at once; I’ve spent the last thirty days leaking. 

And breasts. Now I hate breasts. Even my own, and that makes me sad.


The Broken Woman Ifestus


  1. Remember that you were born in the sky: you don’t have veins, you have constellations; you don’t have blood, you have moonshine; you don’t have lungs, you have clouds; you don’t have a brain, you have a nebula; you don’t have a heart, you have an aurora.
  2. Study The Universe. Get a Spinster of Hearts. Get a Mistress in Compassion and Dignity.
  3. Your brain is overworked and underpaid, and your heart is a fucked up little rainbow punching bag. But your gut is your guru and you should shut up and listen because it knows even more than your earth mother.
  4. Just because some people are simple as arithmetic, doesn’t mean you should pretend you’re not more like chaos theory.
  5. Stop forgetting that you are loved. Keep trying to love yourself; you’ll get there one day.
  6. THERE IS NO NEED TO BE FUCKING AGGRESSIVE. You do not need to bark to be heard. Instead, be the sound that leaves make in the wind. Only poets will hear you. This is okay.
  7. When your heart breaks, don’t cut yourself on the pieces. Use them to make a stained-glass collage of your acquired compassion, of your courage, of your capacity for pain.
  8. Do not be afraid to break. Never stop breaking. The cracks are how the light shines through.
  9. Let go of the need to know. You will know when it’s time to know. Never before.
  10. Smoke if you got ‘em. Let go if you don’t.
  11. Pro tip for life: do epic shit and be fucking kind. The End.

What is poetry?

CONFESSION/ you move me, muses when I’m lost in the museum of my mind I don’t mind the scrawny sleep after midnight mania manic mad sick or high enlightened inspired, I don’t know I do know that I speak three and a half languages English Greek French Soul you are that language and no I don’t have a dictionary I feel the definitions I bleed the synonyms you are cinnamon mornings when it’s cold outside but sunshine inside honey, you are a fantastic stanza trance I don’t know how I know how to dance because I don’t speak music you are the foetus of my soul, unapologetically polyamorphous you laugh too loud, poetry your smile is too sad and fragile but when I lose your colours my heart stops rhyming and my eyes get brittle I just love the way my bones rattle with impatience and the weightlessness of the right word I might not know what art is but I’m all about heart and the truth is that theories are always thread-thin

Two-hundred and Eighty: purgatory

he left
just before
the opportunity,
his shy smile,
his dark mystery
and his golf hat
with him,
and leaving me
nothing but
fucking potential.

story of my life.

everyone else
got nothing for something.
as if
usurped their good luck.

and then They rose from the underground
on magic stairs,
hungover on routine.
his alien eyes were
and mine were broken glass.

his hands were handcuffed
and it chafed my heart.

she dropped her fat red rose on the dirty road.
it was my fault.
was it my fault?

everywhere, women are thinner than me.

not even the baby sunshine can ease this ache.
not even the promises of a glorious history.

i’m fading,
right here by the
graffiti flowers
and earthquake pavement.

i wonder if the marbles will mourn me.

Two-hundred and Seventy-nine: itcouldhavebeenaversary

i like to play around with the letters
of their names, pretending
that the ghosts of their broken hearts
do not haunt me.  they banded
to make a boomerang of his single
i never knew my ribcage was so fucking useless.

we add -aversaries to everything;
to celebrate pain is to give it meaning.
today is a whatifaversary,
an itcoudhavebeenaversay.

then he said what they all say
‘you have proven your strength.
you can do anything.’

i play with my gold rings
-promises to myself-
torn thoughts on a loop.

who am i to overcome
the skinny handwriting of my childhood?

yet, today, i did not burst
like the pinata karma tried to make me.

i almost didn’t cry.
and that’s supposed to mean something.

This is not a poem per se. I do not know what this is. My writing has gone stale. Bear with me until I can bare all again.