& 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 Three: Trust

It was a blue-eyed day: paper cut looks
took root in candy-floss fingers. I was
lost in someone else’s history. To laugh
I just shook half-truths from a humid
heart. Happiness is an art, and I am
a master; I can smile faster than a bullet.
Test it. Take my smile for a ride. I pretend
to forget certain black pearl words. They
are always hard because they are falling
on soft ears, the wrong ears, not your ears.
You never heard. Not on any coloured day.
You just followed the curve of my cheek
and stopped when you got caught in an
angle, leaving nothing but lemon trees,
dirty underwear, unsucked lollipops.
The dust of your memory makes me
choke. Fine, leave me, go ahead…
but you could have left some trust.

Thirteen: Paper Doll In A Cage

Shut up,
I wear heels bigger than your dick.
I make spiderweb eyes at you, wanting you
to get tangled in my own question mark.
I laugh and say, ‘Catch me if you can,’
because it’s safe, because you could,
but I won’t let you.

I swear on this millenium’s seventies rebellion,
looking so far down on you you’re nothing but
a speck in a long line of nights. I sneer and I say,
‘Come home with me,’ because it’s safe,
because I know I can kick you out in the morning,
before the truth dawns on you, glass thick.

I tear my skin from yours. I rise and say everything
before you get a chance, because I can,
because if I don’t, you will,
and it’s safer for me to be holding the balls.

Suddenly I see a bitter thin wink in the mirror;
It says, ‘You stupid girl, your sword is plastic.

You’re nothing but a paper doll in a cage.’

Eight: Bully

Feed me. A menu of magazines drooling over the hollow irises of my youth
as emerald beads swing from lie to lie, not quite believing this awkward truth.
Feel me. Fingers scratching a trembling abdomen while I, swollen and grey,
shake with a hunger for the perfect self-portrait. Listen to me as I say:
Fight me, and this unquenchable quest for straight lines and acid white
bones. Stop throwing up pats on the head and indulging rolls of the eyes.
Finally, this porcelain spirit should shatter, fall piece by dirty piece,
until I am little else but spirit myself. Heart attacked, but tongue in cheek.