Lovers vs Friends

After my last shitty interactions with pretty men, it’s got to be friends everytime.

This was the highlight of my weekend. I feel so lucky to have such beautiful souls in my life.

Nourish what is wholesome in your life.


Covid test unlawful?

They break the rules they make up.

It is them and us.

Always will be. Do something!


Right now I’m feeling like I’m worth it. It’s an unusual feeling for me. Do you?

The word pruning comes to mind. Like every element of my life from nostril hair to unneeded stress needs to go…so I can breathe.

I just keep taking away. Loss is natural, loss is lightening, loss is good pain. Exposing myself to loss: consciously, carefully, judiciously is my new MO.

So I set distance depending on my gut or my reaction. This, I want to come closer, this I need to move away.

This is dying, decrepid; this hurts and refuses to stop despite my repetitive protestations.

This seems to bring out puss, I didn’t even know I had, I feel smaller and stupider than ever before.

This remembers me when I forget: cares, embraces when I didn’t know I needed it. Sees the good in me that no one told me about.

I study myself like an intrepid anthropologist.

Pruning, re soiling are just what I do so I can flourish throughout the torment.

Needy is my middle name

I’m so fucking needy. I mean. I ask myself ‘why you so needy?’.

Everyone comments on it. Every boy and my mates. Sometimes I feel I’m just an annoying ache in this world.

Its become my USP, except that it makes me unsellable, undesirable.

I’ve made it such a big deal in my head that I can’t see anything good in me. The awareness of my neediness is spreading like some crazed super spreader. Blemishing my consciousness. Negating flashbacks. Haunted by my misdemeanors. Making me detest me. And guess what… I’ll just do it all over again.

Pendulum swinging to needless guilt from blind repetition.

Harmonious change is a distant hallucinatory hope, shimmering like a fake oasis in the far distance.

I wanna b your girlfriend

Too much to remember. Too much to hold.

He was moving house. I helped. As always, the loyal stranger- friend, I supported him. Coz I had a car and he had no one

Oh yeah,there was the slight issue of the Christian brainwashing I had undergone since dot that made me ready and willing to hang myself on a cross anytime. Good Samaritan syndrome was the name of the game, since I’m mixed race, their ethnicity really worked for me.

He said an uber would do, that he wasn’t worth the congestion charge, that I didnt have to.

I did the mother Teresa with no knickers act. You know? I’ll be there for you, as long as your penis is my prize.

I arrived, sunburnt and out of breath. Skin like butter from Tirrenian sun. He was welcoming, a bit smiley, a bit awkward. After all, this was our second meeting.

I assumed intimacy, as we had been on our video calls and endless chats. He pushed me away. Compared me to an over affectionate, sloppy dog.

I should have seen that and left, there and then. Told him to fuck off. Seen that he was a rose with exquisitely, dangerous thorns.

He sulked, he stomped, he kicked off. I played the docile, subservient female. Supporting, holding his Seething at moving house yet again, being alone at 50, being estranged from his kids, being cuckholded.

All for the chance of feeling his soft, sensual flesh pressed against mine. I put up with his shit. I darted round London looking for duvets, pillows, tea lights, a smile? He wouldn’t touch me. I caved in inwardly, but played the matriarchal role impeccably. He just stomped as I sorted his admin.


Back to basics…

Mozart Requiem. Familiar. Go to wearisome, heaviness. Go to thick, impenetrable layers of sadness. I’m immobile, unable to ‘turn that frown upside down’. Asking too much.

So, I let the drama of the scrubbing violins, haughty call of the trumpets and trombones, overreaching tide of the unison choir take me, partially, to transcendent places in the Dies Irae.

My spirit rising smoke wisps, my body heavier than ten ton bricks.

It’s the only way. Is to feel. Not understand. Not reach for fake explanations of love gone sour, changes in mood medicines or hormonal imbalances.

It’s all toooo much. And that’s ok coz I’ll float on the ebb and flow of the Lacrymosa, tender violin falling phrases, touching my unreachable niggling soreness.


So we met.

So we didn’t meet.

Actually we sat in a car. Looking.

Mmmmm not really.

I pressed his bones, his slim physique, his pubescent skin. He said my skin was like butter. He couldn’t stop telling me how beautiful I am. I wasn’t interested. I was in awe of his brooding eyes. His alien trajectory, his jumble of accents, Lebanese poetry, fast, hard, hot sex. He pulled my hair hard, I melted in his grasp, like butter.

The mixed race, the brown, the more anti whiteness than the black, the melting of the imperialist canon into pan African, wokeness.

He asked for McDonald’s, I asked for certainty…