There’s a boy who I used to want to love me, who carved little scars all over my body and my brain and I kept skipping school and taking a train only to find attachment and emptiness, glaringly empty melancholy with him by my side. While he slept and I wished he could give me that elusive thing my hurting and lost self must have been searching for. And in the morning I would leave and I would be hollow and then three agonising years passed by. Now this boy calls me up and he tells me he wants to do it for real.

There’s a boy who I thought it could be different with, an ordinary boy who didn’t stand out to me like a star in the cloudless, polluted city sky. But we drank ten gallons of beer and made out in the back of a taxi. He took me dancing and walking and made me believe that maybe one day it could be love, maybe, I don’t know. So I trusted and I tripped a little bit and all the while I felt safe, I was falling down a black hole. Now I don’t feel anything, but we still never talk. We watch from afar, but we never talk.

There’s a boy who wanted to give me the world and the sun and the waves and sweet, sweet sugar, and then he wondered why I couldn’t stomach it. He wanted to laugh with me and love me in ten seconds and cut a little slice of technicolour. But I would flinch sometimes when he touched me, and we would lie in the sand, sandy bodies, next to and on top of each other, sunstroked as the sky turned orange and peach. Now I’m back in London and he still wishes me goodnight, but it’s not him that I could love, it’s the touch that I know won’t hurt me.

There’s a boy that I love now and to state that so plainly, as a fact and not a question scares me deeply and endlessly. There’s a boy who I love so much, and I’m so terrified that he can’t give me what I want or need. There’s a boy that knows me and understands me, who makes me laugh and lets me into his building when I’m drunk to consume his kitchen. There’s a boy whose sweatpants I steal and nag for not taking care of our imaginary children. There is a boy who is comfort and warm heating and tequila shots and Christmas morning. And I love him plain as day in whatever way I can’t even tell you, but he never picks up the ******* phone.

The problem is that I am searching for spontaneous combustion, the kind of instant burning up and irrevocable passion...emotions forged so deeply that it hurts as much as it feels good, simultaneously.

The problem is that despite the exterior  walls and unconfirmed emotional detachment issues, I think that deep down I want romance and to be swept off my feet.

The problem is that either the above does not exist or that I am not good enough to be a recipient of it.

The problem is perhaps that I am the problem - I am not too naive nor ignorant to have not assumed this. So I suppose I will just have to fall in love with literature

And fall in love with the beautiful
And fall in love with the ******
Did you notice how that was a Scott Fitzgerald reference
Probably not
And that defines the elusiveness of what I am looking for
And it illuminates the fact
That perhaps it does not exist at all
Or even more heartbreakingly
That it was not destined for me

They say that truth is found amongst the caverns in your heart
But I? I am more akin to the eye.
The crevice that gapes lets the light filter through
When I look into your piercing pupil
There is nowhere to hide
And thus I can decipher whether the words you whisper,
Are the truth, or lies.

It is not just the iris itself which stands so bare
Defenceless
To the ******* of a man who searches for answers.

The eyelashes, too, give away inklings
And indications of what is to come.
You blink and I sense hesitation,
Refusing to let your eyes meet mine,
A feeling seeps over me,
I'm sensing a lie.

But amongst all the uncertainty
That the eyes do bring
When you shoot down that one foolhardy look...
Well,
A man would go to hell and back just to get his fix.

And suddenly there are no more doubts,
just eyes.

We do the best we can
That's all we can do
Even though we know
It's never enough for you.