like art could save a wretch like me

I’m so sick of being this frustrated with my own mind. I want to punch myself in the head until it works again. Although I guess it never did work, I just never realised it. I guess it’s like a broken coat hanger - you never realise it’s broken until you hang something off it that’s a little bit too heavy and it snaps. I’ve struggled with navigating the world my entire life, struggled to make friends - not wanted to make friends - struggled to motivate myself, to get out of bed, to make conversation, to go to school, to shower and cook and clean and be productive. My mind has made my entire life difficult but it’s always redeemed itself by making education easy. Education has been the only thing that’s come easily to me. And now I’m sat here at 3am after a year of barely staying afloat, in front of my computer, trying to read for an essay that’s 3 months late - one of the 8 I have to do in the next two weeks - and I just fucking can’t. None of the words are making sense to me, nothing is translating itself into ideas in my head. I’m not made for education, but I’m not meant for anything else either. I fucking hate my own mind and I hate myself, and maybe I was never meant for this world.

through your bedroom window, we can watch planes take off from London Heathrow. You ask me if I ever see a plane and wish I was on it. You smell like sweat and my body is twisted, my boobs lopsided and my bones exposed. "Every time," I reply, but don't tell you that in this moment, there's nowhere else I'd rather be.

"So kill yourself, I fucking dare you." She raised her eyes and placed them dead on mine and for a second I could hear her swishing my words around her mouth, tasting every syllable -  “I don’t care enough to kill myself. But hold a gun to my head and see if I fight."

Fuck, I’ve been trying to cry all night but I guess this sadness is too comfortable lodged in my throat to pour from my body in tidal waves and leave me in peace. It’s always loved torturing me. You know, I dreamt about you the night before last. You were faceless, nameless, but I knew it was you  by the familiarity of your lips, and the way I woke up  feeling as though everything was  going to be ok. It’s incredible how lonely it can be living in a city with 8 million people -  maybe after twenty years I’m finally learning that  everyone who’s ever been in my life has been toxic, and we’re all better off having no-one to inflict our destruction on except ourselves.

It was just one kiss? No, no, no, it wasn’t just one kiss -  it may have been one night, but it was a million kisses. It was a million kisses, it was banging bones and breathlessness, it was you tucking my hair behind my ears and burying your lips into my neck and eating into my eyes with the hunger in yours;  it was dirtied white hotel sheets and  the rasps of 3am whispers. It was me kissing your index finger and you telling me how right my skin felt underneath your hands,  and it was my ankles wrapped around each other  above the arch of your back.  It was temptation turned to hesitation turned to addiction,  it was your hands lingering on my hipbones before  pushing their way into my underwear, and your teeth finding their way past the wiring of my bra. Damn it Marcus, you can tell her it was just one kiss if it makes you feel less guilty, but we both know it isn’t just one kiss that wakes me up at 2:57 in the morning covered in sweat with my heart racing like the aeroplane I sat on three days later -  I guess I’ll just add this to the list of lies you’ve told.

I'm going to repost my entire "Letters to Marcus" series in a second - sorry for the spam xxxx

I'm not doing ok at the minute and I need to be with my family.

I just want to be with somebody who struggles with the world as much as I do. 

I'm writing a spoken word piece on HIV for an event run by a charity I work for... Remind me why I signed up for this again? 

Darling, hasn't anybody ever told you that calling me "jaaneman" doesn't make you cultured, and that staying until the end of the credits doesn't automatically mean you appreciate the craft of film making? You can drink your red wine and avoid Coca Cola and Primark like the plague, talk about the spiritual awakening that marijuana gives to you and how "real cinema is never  made in Hollywood" - but remember, your pretentious bullshit doesn't take from the fact that you're sixty percent water and are made up of  a hundred trillion cells, that you lie and you cheat and you're just as fucking human as the rest of us. 

The repair man just came to my room to look at my broken heater and I didn't want him to come into my bedroom so I just... told him it was working? But it's not? And now I have to suffer through the Winter with no heating? What is wrong with me?

"If you wanted to be married by now you would be. But you're not, and you know why? Because you're irrationally picky, you're easily distracted, and you're utterly anhedonic."