I wanted a friend, didn’t want a date
and yet we texted, we met, we played.
we awkwardly hugged, kissed, fucked
and decided it was worth taking a punt.
you were there, you listened and I let go
of my fears and never said no.
I’d have never thought you could get so close
to someone you didn’t know
up until a few weeks ago.
you were a stranger until you became you,
you made me happy but I was still blue.
I got used to your giggle, your voice, your smell.
there wasn’t anything that I couldn’t tell
you out loud, that I couldn’t share.
did we hit the jackpot? isn’t it rare?
getting along, being friends,
not keeping our hands
off each other, and seeing the city
that never sleeps while we slept tangled up
in each other’s arms, not holding a fart.
the way we’d talk, we’d cry and laugh,
the way you’d look at me wasn’t enough
if you left me after six months
by leaving a hole through the door
when I said the scariest word.
here it is, crumbling around me, my whole world.
turns out this was nothing to you and I was alone.
it breaks my heart that you, too, are one of my poems.
draw a line if you can and miss talking to me
till your guts hurt cause that’s how it will be.
what does it mean I’m the first you want to talk to about how you feel?
I might be sad and messed up, but I do know this was real.
and you fucked it up. I wish you came back
with something to say,
but today is not the day and it might never be.
I lost a friend and a lover, I don’t understand.
guess I’m not really that strong so this is the end.
ps. you said bad things come in three,
I hope that’s it for this year and I’m finally free.
you were fun, I was hurt.
two months later
you’re no fun, I’m no good.
you had waited so long for a lame date
then another and one final yet.
all that death talk and I can’t get
my head around this. was it something I did?
I’m sorry I’m sad, my boobs are too small,
I cry and don’t care about football,
only care about my mental health, not yours.
actually, no, I’m not fucking sorry at all.
fetishizing my sorrow wasn’t enough,
you were the hero, I was the one
to be cheered up and saved,
the one whose roots have been ripped off
the one who would cough
until her nose bled,
the one to fuck in her own bed
until you’ve got somewhere to run,
is that why you can’t cum?
you were only here for my dead plants,
and now that spring has sprung,
you’re fixing your own mess
not giving me a chance, I guess.
just leave me on read,
still watch my stories as if it wasn’t that bad.
got my own ghosts, don’t need one more
what was all that sympathy for?
hope you’ve enjoyed my grief,
hated your ck briefs,
but I could have liked you anyway.
you had one job and now it’s done,
so take your stuff and stay away.
first date was a movie.
as rachel’s father died,
we were making out, your hands on my thighs,
the thought of death never even crossed our minds.
how funny cause, when it happened to me,
regardless of two months of dinners and plans,
a couple of kiss emojis was all that you had.
I wanted to like you so badly but didn’t.
your food was alright,
not sure about spending the night,
guilt-tripping about maybe seeing a guy. and for what?
your posh cooking class that never will be?
should sign up for a decency workshop, it’s free.
I’ll never get a battered sausage with your beloved dip,
but now I get why you like it so, you’re just as cheap.
swipe right, reignite
five years after that first night.
I found something I needed
without looking for it. serendipity, is it?
scalp massages and unkissed lips,
too many drinks and fused hips,
let’s finish what we started
and let’s get this over with, shall we?
but wait! what have I got?
two dates and twice as many bruises,
a movie, a song, fluids and juices
and a text left on read.
well, actually two, isn’t it sad?
was I so boring, or was the sex bad?
or were you such a coward with no guts to tell
you didn’t want this becoming a two-night stand?
I stopped the presses for you
but you didn’t even stop to text back.
‘hey, shall we order some food?’
she hoped he would lift his face
from the screen he was so into,
he only replied ‘it would be good’.
‘I’m fine with whatever,’ she said
to a question he hadn’t asked yet,
but she wasn’t really fine or good for that matter.
‘tesco is just around the corner, what shall I buy?’
she was hungry and so she said ‘pizza is okay’.
he only gave her a quarter on a dish,
took the rest for himself as that wasn’t selfish,
but it was and they both knew that.
she hadn’t climaxed, her thirst was unquenched,
all she really wanted was to be loved, fucked, fed.
‘did he notice?’ she asked to herself,
thinking she was being unfair,
but she had only been given one slice
of heart, dick, pizza and that was the price.
her hunger unsatiated, he’s not so bright,
he apologised, they laughed, ‘it’s alright’
yet days later she still stares at her plate
and thinks about that damn pizzagate.
oggi sono successe due cose.
ho finito il libro che ho comprato per £2.50 appena trasferitami a londra ormai più di un anno e mezzo fa e un amico mi ha raccontato una leggenda indiana, una di quelle con re, aiutanti, palazzi e doni preziosi. le due cose possono sembrare indipendenti, ma invece mi sono parse in qualche modo collegate.
non dirò che libro fosse né consiglierò a tutti di leggerlo perché vorrei che il mondo venisse protetto da tutta questa pena. è il libro il cui adattamento cinematografico mi ha fatto piangere di più in assoluto ed è per questo che ho impiegato così tanto a finirlo. che sia stato bellissimo leggerlo, attraversare tutto quel dolore, è un’altra storia. ero immobile a leggere l’ultima pagina appena uscita dalla metro perché il tempismo spacca il secondo solo nei film e la mia fermata era arrivata troppo presto. venendo a patti con la fine di questa storia, ho riflettuto su come il vuoto e la tristezza dei protagonisti debbano necessariamente, fisiologicamente trasformarsi in altro e fluire. guidare fino a un campo, accostare, scorgere qualcosa tra rifiuti di ogni genere e pensare di affrontare la perdita per un minuto o due in quel modo, in quel luogo, prima di rimettersi alla guida perché anche questo, come i momenti trascorsi con le persone ormai andate, passerà.
e veniamo al mio amico indiano che mi racconta di un re, della sua festa di compleanno e di un suo aiutante che, invece di ennesimi doni luccicanti, gli regala un anello d’argento con la scritta “questi giorni dovranno passare”. nel bel mezzo delle celebrazioni, sembra quasi di cattivo augurio. non c’è bisogno che spieghi quando quelle parole acquisteranno un senso nuovo, pieno e di conforto. non so perché me l’abbia raccontata proprio oggi, ma si adatta all’umore da fine libro di cui sopra.
questi giorni dovranno passare. un giorno non rideremo, scoperemo, litigheremo per finta e fingeremo di lasciarci per poi ricominciare. che tutto questo passerà mi uccide. che i momenti bui passeranno mi consola. che io sia finalmente pronta ad accettare l’esistenza di entrambe le prospettive senza recriminare mi stranisce.
you make me wanna send nudes again.
you make me wanna write up here again*.
*a similar version of this post appeared in my hardcopy notebook.
I’m not even sure if I’m allowed to use a new ‘you’,
but all these feelings have to come out somehow
and not as tears for once