you make them good girls go bad *wry smile*

what do I know about him?

tattoos, bass guitar, rock & roll and all that jazz

loves his mom loves jesus loves everyone loves himself but not enough

covering up; running from a cocaine addiction

his girlfriend, dead, dead for 3 months

… she knew, she knew, I know. shit shit shit

hand on my leg. shit

(fuck me fuck me fuck me please)

gorgeous boy, beautiful boy with a beautiful body and beautiful thoughts and beautiful talents

so well dressed

so sweet and opinionated and clever but thoughtless at the same time

Casanova; ‘you make every girl feel like the only girl in the world’

warning?

‘did you think I was gay?’

‘I don’t think you’re bad.’………………………..

‘or shall we just retire to the master bedroom?’

(I would love to)

(If only, patheticpatheticpathetic, I wasn’t so fucking fat that I woke up every morning hating myself, that my own reflection makes me feel as though I’ve just been assaulted, that I’m lonely and stressed and when I’m happy even that is a failure because I’m so fucking fat. That one day I woke up, one day long ago, and knew that the thing I feared most in the world was falling in love and being disappointed by a man, like my father has disappointed me, my brothers, all of them. And (she said) I would not be my mother, and I would not know a reality like my parents, and instead I would drink and drink and drink and hook up with boys and girls and things that can only be recorded in memory as ‘people’, I’m no slut. But I gave up caring, and I went into lesbianism like it was a joke, like other peoples’ lives were a joke, and I fucked girls, and I fucked them up, because I never cared about them and I never cared about the sex and I never cared about any of it, and then I woke up one morning realising that I’d tried so hard, so fucking fucking fucking fucking hard, to be a fun/funny/frivolous girl and so many people had believed it, so very many, so many friends, friends and ‘friends’, lovers and lies, and then I woke up and saw that I was a lie and I was fucked up and I despised my mother for what (not who) she is, and I despise the home I come from and the institution of marriage. And I woke up and saw that I was empty, ringing ringing ringing with the echoes of who I could have should have (somewhere buried deep) must be, and, once awoken, I knew the truth; all my life I was afraid of being a woman, because to be a woman is to live cocooned in the most revolting weight of cruel socialisation, failed hopes, imperfect dreams and ridiculous expectations, to be scared, to compete, to crawl like the scum of the cesspits of the earth in order to getafuckinghead to getagrip on the secrets of love and happiness and fuckingskinnyjeans, and I know now that being a woman, and, sadly, I am a woman, is a stroll off a short pier, onto a cliff-face were I will hang, scrabbling for the rest of my life, fighting, cannot stand up, cannot let go, always afraid, always afraid, always afraid, and its centre is; thefeartheterrorthehorror(of falling in love and being betrayed and being denied and being disappointed, as life has taught me I must be by): You.

Not you – boy – the person (I vaguely know) not you the individual, but what you represent. So I’m sorry that I’m rude, and dull and aggressive to you and then suddenly turn into a charming (slightly flirtatious) drunk. I’m sorry. I’m tired. I’m disappointed in (or should that be with?) myself. I fucking hate that I can’t behave (I want to laugh). I’ve just never met anyone like you before. And when you walked up to me at that party (after I had to extricate myself from our conversation to go and purge, as I always do, not for the sake of drunkenness but because purging is the safest bit of instant satisfaction/relief available at my fingertips [a terrible pun])… and said: ‘I lost you’ and smiled your wide, I think, rather drunken smile, and refused to believe me when I said your accent doesn’t make you sound stupid… well, then; my heart, my big, liberal, completely retarded heart just sort of spasmed and took a look at you and wanted me to take this body and make it lay down with you somewhere in the most alone and naked universe we could find, and then my heart gave another little jerk, and the past came back to me, and then my heart was glass, then wood, then concrete, then tar, then scrap metal, paperclips, dental floss, a million sterile-mundane-cold-hard things. Anything. This heart will do and be anything so long as it does not have to pick this body up and make it lie down with you. because then all of me, every last vestige of sanity and thought and function will be on the line… because I’m a shit-shack of psychosis at the moment, my past is manifesting in my present, which I’ve been fighting since the day I was born (not breathing, a sure sign). I cannot help myself, I have to fight. Fight you. Fight my heart. Be mean and awkward and (pathetic really). And Fat. And Alone. Because that’s it, that’s me right now, and I can’t have someone who is so beautiful in my space, because I’m not bringing you in here, and I’m not leaving, so... I’m scared. I’m bullshit personified. But that’s the way we are.