& Other (a library of thoughts)

Logical Men Always Break Your Heart & Other Women’s Wise Words

Why do you always date selfish men?

There is no shame in asking someone to love you. Pride is how you pick yourself up afterwards.

You were not wrong to trust what you had. He was wrong to break that trust.

How Are You Still Single & Other Idiotic Things Guys Have Said While Breaking Up with Me

You were an experiment.

I’m not good enough for you.

This is awkward but…I forgot my wallet.

I thought I could marry you. I still think that’s true.

I think about you too much and it’s distracting me from the rest of my life.

You are by the far the easiest person I could have fallen in love with. But I couldn’t let that happen.

Our Capacity to Love May Be Infinite, but Our Capacity for Heartbreak is Not & Other Life Lessons I Learnt at 30

Love is something that happens to other people.

My heart is so full of hurt that there is no space for more. I can no longer be hurt.

It only gets harder to believe that the world is not actively trying to make me bitter.

Boys are always falling in love with me. And leaving before they have to love me.

All the ugly endings have beaten up all the butterflies of beginnings and so I have zero desire to date.

I have doubted every man that’s ever loved me. Even the ones that did. Even the first.

It seems I forget rather than forgive, by letting layers of life muffle the pain (but every time I remember, I hurt).

The More I Live, the Less I Feel & Other Bitter Truths

I live in a near-perpetual state of grief.

I grieve for innocence, for hope.

If feelings were muscles, mine would be raw with abuse.

I am almost always alone. That does something to a person.

It is easier to believe that I’ll never be loved than to believe that one day I’ll meet a man who isn’t horrifyingly disappointing.

Life gets smaller as I get older. That is a good thing.

Life has extinguished a light in me and I do not know how to turn it back on.

I have already lived so many lives and none of it seems real except for the chapter I am living, and as soon as it is in the past, it is as foreign and distinct to me as fiction.

Life does not get less painful, but you do get better at dealing with it.

You can be terribly sad and okay at the same time.





Two-hundred and Forty-six: Let’s Undo What They Did To Us

My daddy taught me not to think and love.
When I stopped being a child, I started drinking.
I waited for trains every night,
throwing my weight (what weight?) on the track marks on my arms.

Constructive assholes sheep-whistled at my wolf-heart.
They taught me everything else:

Do not indicate when turning left.
It’s not like you can do anything right.

More instructions- listen! learn!
No, don’t scrawl silly poems in the margins.
You don’t need a manual?
How are you going to read a man?
A mirror? Give your reflection a message:
get off your fucking highway.

Pull over.
Swallow every letter of his name.
Portable seatbelt.
Strap it on.
Wrap your legs around this cliche.

I listen to her breathing,
the scrapes of her ceramic mind as she scoops spoonfuls of grey sky.
I want to tell her about mistaking a fat lip for a kiss.
I want to tell her about Gordon’s palm-prints sitting on my neck,
-midnight bruises, twilight violet-
but I can’t because our daddies didn’t teach us the same things.

Still, I hear her in my head, sunny South African whispers:
it’s alright to pretend you’re from Venus sometimes.
Be river, not lava.

Rip up that god damn manual you think someone gave you.
You would be a better listener if you stopped taking notes.
So unclench that claw, stop hiding behind the pen,
stop running in the endless loops of your cursive.

Let’s undo what they did to us.

This poem needs an editor. If you don’t mind being paid with tequila and positive energy, please apply within.

Two-hundred and Thirty-nine: you should know this

you should know this, she said.
men hang from your finger tips.

i imagined little men suffocating
on the nooses of my nonchalance.

you should know this. but i don’t.
i doubt their beer-soaked odes,
their warm, fumbling hands.

so i made him blush- so what?
so he winked at me- so what?
i say
, it don’t mean a thing
cos it ain’t got that swing.

now i flirt via tape-recorder;
automatic, organic machine
of lip smacks and lash bats.

you should know this. know what?
countless experiments down the

drain. because when it mattered,
i didn’t have one damn answer.