Loser

Cellophane wrap or sealed pack or paper bag: clutch me. Try not to drop me.

It, this, crept like damp from the doorway until there was mould along the skirting.

I consciously partook in phone calls and friendings and 56,000 FB messages.

A lie would be I was absent for it. I was absent very little of it.

And now, history book months later, all I want is that wheezing breath next to me.

Hearts suck. Seriously. I mean.

hate you

nevergoingtochange (said like it’s one word)

I phone you back because we’re never done, especially when we say we are, which is why every goodbye’s thirty minutes long; it’s impossible to package us neatly up, like a suctioned haggis, metal ties on the end to keep fresh.

I can’t compile us like an essay collection or tea set for the charity. As a Collected Works we’d maybe make sense, and we’re not nonsensical now, only, there’s always more, especially when we out loud state there won’t be.

We plan Thanksgiving in September, though you hate celebration as much as existentialism, which you hardly hate at all, just you’re not a fan of the quivering limbo it tram seat sits you in, and you can’t get off between stops. Uncertainty’s the kicker.

You text me back when the call’s missed and the call ends more than once, and four hours feels like six minutes, and I know it’s never over: I know it never is.

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&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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Conflagration

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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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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Number

There were other offers. I don’t want you to think that there weren’t. But hotel rooms are a palate cleanser. And you’re on speed dial.

I don’t know what we talked about; it wasn’t much of anything, actually, that we hadn’t said already. Still, it was ’90s Dayglo coupled with Skrillex songs.

And it didn’t cut out, did it? The signal, I mean. The way it does every other time we talk from our actual houses. No-one redialled a million times. It was an ever connected line, for about three hours. Not eternity, exactly, but the things I learnt.

Every one of your stories, even the worst ones, I’ll take twice. If you run out, if that’s possible, three’s fine. Just don’t stop talking. Texting. Typing. Blogging. Logging the fact you exist in survivable formats, archive-able ones.

No-one cares if it’s true, but you may be the tattoo I’ll not bore of. Only, what font do I get you in?

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Whatever Happened to Discretion?

Where did it go, the notion that some things you’re told simply for you? When did diagnosis get fodder, dinner conversation at parties I’m not even at?

Selective smartness says people talk. I even really know. But I forget when my story traded hands into your hands, with permission gift to dollar slick each of my details into someone’s else’s teeth. Because I never gave it, to you, did I? You didn’t ask what’s okay, and what’s not.

What I’m over is sixth degree separation pity filling inboxes after ten and Christmas cards laced with condolences and sorry scrawled worse than love. And texts to say we’ve heard and people I work with finding out, choiceless, before I’m ready to tell. I thought that you knew; I thought you would know. This is not your news to tell.

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Wax Wane

If you’re dead wood, what am I? Deader? Or algae growing on wood, ready for a scrape, or shade, power washer.

I instruct you how to block someone even though you’re versed in blocking me, just, maybe not when I’ve already blocked you. Strange how a thread disappears, a confusing edit making a 52 message string almost incomprehensible; people balking at nothing.

But we don’t balk, really. We’re blitzed and escalation sits bemused on our eyeballs. And really, I didn’t digest a thing which happened the last 6 months, or before, and I don’t see how I’m going to. Because the future is this unthinkable thing, you know? This unpredictable, potentially awful, ungrabbable, unimaginable, not-Disney-movie, piece of shit to plan for.

So if the choice is mine, like, seriously, and I get to pick anything I think will make me happy, then, what should I? How much longer can this wax and wane fester, like yesterday’s guac? And what’s with the wait?

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Be True

I’m going to raise rambunctious kids, all gum and gumption, spit; spirit like a Coke can exploding. Fizz but not much liquid, ultimately. Because mess is always less than you prepare for, and worry, thermal thick, defines days deeper than watches, and hearts can’t handle uncertainty. Mine can’t, anyway. Cliffhangers get to me. I don’t want to skip every exchange that makes this great like stage plays or Shakespeare or limited release movies which only play cities because small towns haven’t got time for, or all they’ve got is hours and it’s harder to schedule when silence lets your head breathe.

What I’d give to wake up without headaches, questions, regret, concern, my heart on a butcher’s shop polystyrene tray waiting to be bought because someone forgot to stick the sold sticker tight, so it sold twice. And nerve pain. I’d give my leftover dimes and Hello Kitty jewellery box filled with last year’s Topshop rings to find the sort of peace those 8 people in yoga class have, when all I can think of is dinner, ex-boyfriends, cinema times, puckered thighs and the lyrics of all Katy Perry songs.

If I raise kids, when we have them, and if, I’ll only have advice like, “Don’t date a guy ’til you’ve seen all 6 seasons of Sex and the City; skip the movies,” or, “Don’t do what I did, whatever that is,” and, “Let love make a fool of you.” And that last one, I’d say twenty times, even if it’s a lie and I didn’t do it, enough.

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Alert Went From Orange To Red

I’d like to believe the best in people. That there’s best in people, and some of us aren’t the stiff skin we seem and, underneath, our organs are swimming with meaningful feeling which we’ll bestow on another human being should we meet one.

Who am I kidding? I’ve believed the best in people, saw what they could be, not what they were. It was a cliff drop. There’s no way back from. And I’d do it again in an instant. Because it’s better than painkillers. Or I just need stronger ones.

I dreamt about you last night. But I won’t write about that. I won’t write it. And you know why? And you’ll never.

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