twenty-eight

Don't quite know what happened there. Maybe it's payback...but no no no, he's the good one. Must. Stop. Thinking. About. Him.

twenty-seven

There is an anger that you cannot contain and you know you should not fight back but the pure fucking indecency that someone could talk to you like that.

twenty-six

Disappeared.

And the most exciting thing that has ever happened to you does not get one congratulations from the people you thought knew you best. Third hand news and seeing clearly for the first time in years; this week is going to wear you down. Just...a...little...longer... Remember the goal. Always one goal in mind, so fucking clear you can see it when you close your eyes, taste it when you lick your lips. Nothing else matters right now, and you can forget them like they forgot you. A decade of silence. Bare feet on terracotta tiles. "Perennial and calm, but most of all...free."

twenty-five

Italy. Navigating the streets on a vespa, sketchbook in a satchel thrown over your shoulder. Pasta and pizza and deep red wine. Olives. Heat. Dust covered, sandal-sore feet. Pennies in the fountain. Basilicas and sweeping domes and orange groves and silent roads and a hint of peace in the heart of a city, sitting at the feet of a hero. Fruit from a market stall in the Campo de' Fiori, eaten on the shady steps of a deserted church. Walking along the Tiber in search of a breeze. Steps and steps and the baking sun on your shoulders and marble reflections blinding you momentarily. Cats curling around ancient pillars. Photographs of every corner and cornice. Tourist traps and off the beaten track. Open spaces and tiny courtyards and views over the rooftops that take your breath away. Everything you dreamed. And more. More.

twenty-four

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.

twenty-three

Your hatred is completely inexplicable.

twenty-two

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

twenty-one

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.

twenty

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.

nineteen

You are waiting for a response that is not coming, and you are waiting and waiting and it is this obsession this needless desire to always know everything that is driving you...somewhere. Is it mad? It is crazy? How many words do you know that mean insane? Come on. Think of some more. It might calm you down. You might start putting the full stops in the correct places, instead of reciting these monologues in your head where you are living someone else's life, definitely not your own.

eighteen

Everything ends and everything begins and you are waiting for the moment that sparkles. The whole point of monotony and boredom and unremarkable days that you forget almost instantly is so that those moments you do love and cherish will shine out even brighter.

seventeen

You are bored; caged, like an animal. The words are soaring above your head like birds, but catching them is becoming impossible. Decipher. Are you certain that this is the reality?

Beauty is the only thing you search for.

sixteen

Remember. And hearing that voice on the phone after months of doing without is turning your brain to dust. Electricity pumped through your temples. Cannot handle this. Get excited, but don't be a dick about it.

fifteen

Lamenting broken hearts and lost genius. Silent tears. Your head is in another place, another time. Words bubble from your lips, excited, obsessive, but your sentences are twisted like rose vines, and you have repeated yourself so many times now that the conviction seems false. You are full of a single daydream, and no matter what you are doing your mind flutters back to the tragedy and the poetry. Above all, the resounding thought remains: can you write something that beautiful in the next five years?

fourteen

Your temper is a living thing; it stretches and twists like an animal, waiting. You can feel it pulsing through your body, into your heart, back out. You are always waiting, because the trigger is anything.

thirteen

Well, you're a laugh a minute, aren't you? No, not you. You.

twelve

Your disinterest in other people's negativity is surprising, considering how much of your own you wallow in. That repressed, silent sigh when they start talking again; the way you close your eyes slowly and take a deep breath, then nod, as if you have been listening. You are watching their mouth move, but you are somewhere else. It is summer and you are standing by the water and the sun sparkles, glaring into your eyes; you push your sunglasses up your nose and smile.

eleven

Ignore it. Ignore that feeling. Squash it now, before it takes over. You are doing well. Remind yourself of that. You are doing well. There are knots in your hair and your head aches and you...must...sleep...soon... But ignore it. You are going to be OH. KAY.

ten

Your ideas are a war in your mind. You want this, but you do that. You say this, but you think that. There is no following through with your plans. Your anger is a diamond of frustration and hate in your chest. Sometimes you mistake this for your heart, but then you remember that you lost that a long time ago.

nine

'You are not your fucking khakis.'