Monday, 14 February 2011


And it is all worthwhile for one phone call and hearing see you on Friday like it's an every day thing and you meet up all the time like you used to. Like you've seen him in the past year. There is the air draining from your lungs when he says your name, and his chokey laugh when you tell him you have missed him. You are serious, but it always sounds like a joke, just like every other aspect of your relationship. Still, it will be nice for a proper smile from someone who curls his fingers in your hair when he hugs you.

Sunday, 13 February 2011

Wednesday, 9 February 2011


Do this one more time and I'll bite your fucking fingers off.

Tuesday, 8 February 2011


Stuttering, stumbling, trembling and mumbling. You smile. The sun is out and the grass is green and birds are twittering and all other cliches of the world are outside your window, which is nice. But it could be pouring rain and the sky could be cracking with thunder and today it would not matter. And you think of hair that curls sweetly at the ends and frameless glasses and teeth nervously biting bottom lips . Every day your head is filled with something new. Shivers. This is a good day.

Monday, 7 February 2011


You are not the future. You are not the key. You will miss me. Maybe not yet. Maybe not even soon. But in a year, or two years or ten years, you will think of those times and you will wonder what happened to me. Perhaps you will regret that you did not stay in touch. Perhaps you will try to ring me, but I won't have the same number and I'll be too angry at you to answer even if I did. You must have realised by now that you are not the centre of everybody's fucking life and even though nobody says it to you, when you interupt or take over or strive to be the centre of attention, you are surrounded by crackling hatred. I do not want to be you. I want you to be me. You will not even read this. You will not notice how, for once, I am using the true you. It is possible that you do not even realise how angry your words make me and maybe (maybe...) it is my own hostile, desperate, loveless mind that is twisting every word you write, but each letter is like a needle being stuck deep into my skin, and I flinch but it doesn't matter really.

You are not awkward enough for me anyway. You cannot even begin to imagine the things I think about.