I’ll get there if it kills me

What do you carry in that heart?

What is it that weighs you down? Why can you only smile so wide, and why is every laugh touched by sadness? Why do you sigh like that, and why do your shoulders drop when you hear bad news, and why can you move on so quickly, as if you were expecting it all to fail anyway?

You carry the weight of the world, and you carry the worlds of other people, and you carry the worlds of the people you no longer are.

We can only handle so much sadness until we crack; we can only find the answers to questions we understand. You take on the pain of other people and lock it away safely for them until one day your soul is clogged with anguish that you can’t even locate. You ignore your own pain and push it deep inside you to make room for others, for the new you that you’re desperate to maintain, and it gets lost behind boxes that don’t even have your name on them. How do you rip something out of you if you can’t even find it? It’s as if something has died behind the walls, under the floorboards, and nothing of it remains but the bad smell it leaves behind. And you find that everywhere. It lingers on your clothes, in your hair, and it threatens to drive away everything you love. It eats away at your strength and it fogs everything in front of you; all you want to do is run away from it and keep running, and you can’t stand still to appreciate what you have in front of you because you’re embarrassed. If you stand still long enough, they’ll see you for what you are.

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Adam’s seats (Bolted, part 3)

 

 

Explain this to me. What the fuck happened?’

It’s 03:32am and we’re doing sixty down a forty. The roads are mostly empty, but I know this means we’ll be hearing police sirens any second now, and I don’t know how shady it’ll look when they open the door of a blacked out A3 to see two brown twenty-somethings with blood on the passenger seat. But I don’t tell Adam about the last part, because I want him to make it to the hospital alive without flipping the car.

I wouldn’t normally see a doctor for a cut, but I haven’t been able to move my hand for a while without fear of painting his seats red. I can’t feel my arm anymore and I think my fingers are about to fall off.

‘I don’t know, man,’ I sigh, too exhausted to even try to think about what happened. These days I just give myself a migraine trying to fill in the gaps; I can’t remember something I wasn’t there for. But I saw the marks on her neck, and what I do know is I did it again. I don’t know what else happened; we made up and fell asleep, we had sex, I think. She fell asleep again. I stayed up. Everything was fine. Then there was blood.

The lights outside are a blur.

Adam quickly looks down at the blood-soaked cloth I’m holding against my left palm, and his eyes keep darting to his seats, occasionally checking that I haven’t spilled any. I have.

‘Why the fuck…’ he mutters under his breath as he pushes his foot down on the accelerator, the engine growling. Read more

Bolted (part 1)

Now. 03:04am

They keep telling me that if I fall asleep, she’ll wake up in the middle of the night and leave me.

I’ve already noticed how she keeps her shoes and bag strategically by the door so she can run out as fast as possible and leave me here all on my own, which is why I always move them back by the foot of the bed. The table against the far wall is scattered with… things. Rolling papers, lighters, her phone, my wallet. I tap her phone to wake it up; a photo of us, smiling, lights up the screen. I laugh to myself as I remember how she begrudgingly replaced the picture of her favourite band. No notifications. That’s what I like to see. I swipe and enter the passcode anyway and open up messages to see the most recent ones.

 

Baby <3
Give me ten minutes. Make sure nobody sees you, and cover yourself.

Clara
LOOOOL slut. I’m gna tell them where u really are xx

Dad
Ok.

 

Weariness starts to sting my eyes, so I lock her phone and walk into the bathroom to wash my face; the light is bright and harsh, so I push the door closed slightly so as to not disturb her.  The lock is broken from where I kicked it in last week; she was crying and wouldn’t let me in. I run the tap and look up into the mirror, leaning on the counter with both hands.

I study my face. I had everybody after me. I had women dropping everything for me at the click of a finger, I had them whenever and wherever I wanted. Anybody I wanted would be mine, anything I wanted would be mine. I had money, I had looks, I had charm. I have had women fighting over me; I have had them betray their own friends for me. Women wanted me; men wanted me and wanted to be me. I run my finger across the scar on my left cheek; even my brothers were jealous of me. But she didn’t want me. She had no desire to know me, and I didn’t turn her head… so I had to have her. Nobody could say no to me, and I had to know why she was immune to my presence.

But I didn’t think I’d fall in love.

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Does Love define us?

Off balance, I need some fixing

‘If you give me a glimmer of hope, you’re in trouble. I take it to the moon.’ – Mike Tyson

Somebody anonymously sent me a message… unfortunately I can’t respond to what anybody sends me on the contact page and I don’t know who it was (I wish I did), but thank you. Ima hope you’re reading this now so this post is for you. I’m glad you asked the question, and thank you for your v nice words. I didn’t answer it before but here we go.

So

Does love define us?

Initially, I would have said no. I wish I could say no. I would have said that it’s impossible and unfair to say that love makes us who we are, because what about people who never feel anything close to love? Are they just yet to be defined as an individual? Have you not lived until you’ve loved? Have I even felt love to be talking about it so confidently? In that respect, I can’t say it defines us. Until we actually feel it. I guess we just don’t know that we’re all walking around as blank canvases until someone comes and splashes red all over it.

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My intuition is telling me there'll be better days [Things we're leaving in 2018]

Number one: calling yourself a blogger when you only write blog posts once every few months haha fuck those guys haha.
Anyway, I feel like I have to end 2018 with a post in my true fashion. By telling you about things that get on my tits and asking you to stop doing them. And nobody is going to listen anyway, so watch this space for the exact same post, word for word, in 12 months. There’s a lot of swearing in this one, hold tight.
Disclaimer: when I say ‘we’ or ‘us’ or ‘our’ throughout this post,  I don’t mean myself because, of course, I’m not a fucking idiot. I mean u man.
1] Filming our generosity Read more

But strawberries and cigarettes always taste like you

Shout out to whoever commented on my last post. If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.
Yes.
It’s true, unfortunately. But we don’t have to fall in love with you; if we anything you, you can never die. This post isn’t about love. I need a break from that, I gotta come back down to reality for a sec. We don’t have to fall in love with you for your legacy to live on.
If we love you, if we’re in love with you, if we notice you, if we hate you, if we’re slightly annoyed by you, if we met you once, or if we walked past you in Tesco in every single aisle, and then again at the checkouts, and then again when we were leaving the shop, and then we drove past you when leaving the car park, and then we saw you at work the next day and you smiled a little wider. Part of you will live on in something – a title, a character, a metaphor, an idea.
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