&stayforever (said like it’s one word)

I want to know how to get out of quicksand and survive it. Apparently using a stick helps. Creating bigger footprints. Not struggling. Is that what my problem is?

We both know it’s not easy as exchanging skirts for other sizes or switching gluten for the wheat. There is no fix to anyone’s any of this.

“Everything’s up in the air,” you say, “for everyone,” and we’re each giving advice we don’t know how to take ourselves, even though the things we accept, button like uniform up, we tell others not to.

It’s easier to pull someone out of a pit than it is to get yourself out, I think.

We’ve survived so many things, and some we’re living with, and if there’s one person you can never bin, it’s yourself.

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How do you make decisions of forever in slip-moments? When words are so untrustable. If he’d left notes, too, on slips of paper in pillow cases, in make-up cases, on your shelf behind the clock, you’d also question his authenticity like your friend’s Uggs she bought from an online shop for less than half the price.

How do you choose the right thing when everyone weighs and already your skin buckles with the weight of rigorous schedule?

How long will you question and quest?



Hello August

I’m an expert suppressor, buried decades in scalp skin, can instantly sink an unfittable thought quick like pulling greys or weeds or butterflies from veins when the drip ends.

I don’t want you in my body any more than my body wants what it has already and each unwanted thought, I peel the eggshell off so that the fleshy egg underneath, hard boiled and slick soft, is another viewing experience altogether.

But bodies have habits of unburying themselves if the job’s not original thorough, and that thought in that pub months ago, is still there. I wait for it to evaporate like nerve coating in my brain and my spine, but nothing uproots it, not any amount of convince or evince or conjecture or lie or physical altercation.

I’d like to rewrite feeling but apparently it just is: you feel and fuck you for trying, fuck you for having an opinion. You love and that love just is.



You threw the game even though pity is my least favourite thing. Favours aren’t always positive. Sometimes they’re cold tap water on a too late burn. You wanted the moment to last longer. Problem is, every moment needs to last extra seconds and this is only more impossible the older we get, once degenerative disease has a dandruff hold.

You potted a red, said “Two shots to you,” like I didn’t know the rules, I’d take a shot you’d essentially paid for, that this didn’t undo me slightly, the same way everyone’s eyes have extra sheen since diagnosis broke them like Easter eggs in rough hands, bowl-less.

But stretching encounters. Okay. I’ll eat that excuse. I understand it. Because each time with you is never enough. I want you in bumper size, basically. Multi-buy Poundland. Special Edition years later with added commentary no one really wants or listens to. But I do.



If this is burning my life to the ground, then okay. Fire extinguish me. Especially if you know what’s best for me. I’m going to assume that you do.

The advice you’ve cheese fries dished out with lashings of BBQ sauce, is it what you’d want to hear in this exact dilemma? Would you hope for a stock drawer answer, or an inspirational meme, or a worn out platitude that didn’t even work on TV?

Because if I’ve learnt one thing, it’s this: advice is lint.

Seriously, shit. And even professionals, who I total value, if they’d said the opposite of what the underside of my heart says, the really crappy layer, like old tyres with no grip, I’d ignore it. Because no-one knows my nerves like me.

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I want to be in love in a movie.

I want to be in love with Tom Hanks in a movie.

I want a complication-less love everyone understands the pursuit of.

I want shady decisions to seem romantic in light of other selections.

I want to be in love with Tom Hanks and for Tom to be in love with me, complicitly, like we’re an in-joke he can’t live without.

I want to fall in love like movies, one of those 200 puffs replacement cigarettes the end of which lights every menthol breath.

I want that Cary Grant love, An Affair to a Remember is, like, actually, dough-solid.

I want a stuffed crust affection, oozing over edges, infecting everything.

I want Tom’s ability to summate the crappiest act as romance, and to be that romance, and to wholeheartedly accept any palmed offering of always.

I don’t believe in ghosts.
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Fools Rush

You tell me to buy the audiobook, even though I called you, whittling my phone contract down into minus figures, for you to tell me you’re not reading a book out loud over the phone. Our conversations out-price me. And this is costing 50p a minute, probably.

Maybe you think it’s a joke; I guess that it is. Because intonation’s a learnable trick, isn’t it? Really no reason why yours is margarine thick, understands each judder bone better than contractual agreements and metal.

But I don’t want the book, or Stephen Fry, or some palatable, 5-star Amazon review, award-winning voice reading it to me.

Like the things you said last night you shouldn’t have said, but you said publicly, anyway, because you’re table laying, or openly flaying, or we’re somewhat flailing, or you’ve lost that filter most people have to not say the things they think to the people they think them about, plus their most treasured 176 FB friends, this is honestly it: I’d keep you in my ear if possibility, technology allowed it. And it’s boring for you, sure. But not me. Never me.

I’m not buying audiobooks, loser. I feel the same about that stuff that you said. What was it again? And I almost called like 40 times, 2 days ago, just to hear you. My thumb twitched at the dial. Because you make me better.

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