A year ago we stayed up till 3 am talking
And today I don’t know how to even say hey
If they don’t reply to your texts — they’re not interested in you.
If they don’t call you — they’re not interested in you.
If they forget your birthday — they’re not interested in you.
If they’re hung up on their ex — they’re not interested in you.
If they’re obsessed with being single — they’re not interested in you.
If they don’t want to meet your friends — they’re not interested in you.
If they don’t want you to meet their friends — they’re not interested in you.
If they don’t ask questions about your life — they’re not interested in you.
If they don’t tell you things about their life — they’re not interested in you.
If they only speak to you when they want to have sex with you — they’re not interested in you.
If they only have sex with you when they’re drunk — they’re not interested in you.
If they say “should we just keep this between us?’ after you have sex with them — they’re not interested in you.
If they don’t have sex with you — they’re not interested in you.
If they can always find a psychobabble rationale about who “I am” or “you are” or “we are” as reason why you can’t be together — they’re not interested in you.
If they have said for more than six months that they would like to be with you “BUT” — they’re not interested in you.
And if you still need convincing — think of it this way. Think of what the real day-to-day of life is taken up by. Life is birthday parties at terrible pubs. Life is losing your credit card and the annual Melbourne Cup sweepstake in the office. Life is hen’s nights, bucks’ nights, sitting on the phone for three hours to get U2 tickets and not getting them, the apartment upstairs flooding your house, interval training, calorie counting, cancer scares, illegal mini cabs, Secret Santa, rail replacement buses and Dido albums. Dogs die, cars crash, bin liners break, contracts end, curtain rails collapse, trains get delayed, football teams lose. Divorce happens and so do earthquakes and so does An Audience With Michael Bublé. Landlords put rent up, phones get stolen and the supermarket often completely runs out of hummus.
Now, taking all of the above into account — you look me dead in the eye and tell me the truth. Do you really have enough spare energy to pursue someone who isn’t interested in you? Do you really want to waste any more time on top of all of that? No. Me neither. So give it up, my friend. It’s a loser’s game. Delete their number. Don’t go on any more dates with them. Stop lurking their Facebook page. Feels good, doesn’t it?
Wanna know the fucking truth? Nobody is fucking happy. Nobody has skin made from oil paint and sunlight. Nobody fucking understands this world. Fuck, nobody probably understands math as much as they claim. You’re here one day and the next you’re not. God? Religion? I’ve learned a lot more about the world by eating acid and swallowing pills. Tell me what your church has done for you? Tell me if you have holes in your mouth from speaking lies? Wanna know the fucking truth? Pity is just another word for pathetic. Drink beer and watch the sunrise from every rooftop. Take photographs naked. Take photographs kissing. Take photographs having sex. Stop making everything about sexuality. Wanna know the fucking truth? Nobody really gives a damn if you lost your virginity at fourteen or if you were the president in high school. Wanna know the fucking truth? There is no such thing as the right person. People leave. They change like ocean currents, they leave you with bruises in your calves. And you wanna know the fucking truth? You get better. You learn to love. You find God in between the cracks of a wall when you’re puking your limbs out. You wanna know the fucking truth? Go find it.
I want a night
I want to close
I want to lay in bed
and feel you breathing.
I want the only noise
to be my inhale
replying to your exhale.
I want to trace my fingers
along every line and curve
of your back.
I want to feel your face
buried into my neck.
I want to lay like this
and feel every worry
the same way that I melt
when I am with you.
What’s my damage? My damage is that I have been walked on so much that I am genuinely surprised when I look in the mirror and see that my flesh is not made out of carpet. My damage is that I am concerned that the people who touch me might get rug burn. My damage is that I was fourteen when he slapped me across the face and that I was the one to say I was sorry. My fucking damage is that I can still feel the sting whenever anybody raises their hands to me, even if it’s for a high five or a hug. My damage is that I have been called so many names in my life time that I have to look at my birth certificate to be sure I’m not Slut on the dotted line, that I’m not the embodiment of the Whore-shaped scar scraped into my ankle. My damage is that I don’t know how to have sex without crying now and my damage is that I’m terrified that the person I love to death will take it personally. My damage is that my skin feels like a prison and I have spent years trying to pry the bars apart. My damage is that whenever I am out in public, I immediately look for the easiest way to escape. My damage is that I don’t believe I am equally as important with my clothes on. My damage is that most of the time I feel like wet grass between someone’s toes as they stare at my back instead of watching out for it. My damage is that I pick at the ends of my hair because it feels like not even strands of me care enough to stay together. My damage is that I don’t know how to accept compliments without shaking my head, no matter what my mouth is saying. My damage is that each time I have been slapped, poked at, punched, hit, or slammed against fridge doors, I have always heard the words “if you hadn’t…” and I have been reminded by every single person that had touched me as such that my pain matters less than their pride. My damage is that, at seventeen, I still can’t sleep with my bedroom door open. My damage is that I have suicide notes folded in with my socks. My damage is that every time I go to bed, I still wrap myself around your sweater even though it doesn’t even fucking smell like you any more.