3.00 am, the witching hour,
when people wake up screaming
panic stricken and weeping
praying for a lost soul somewhere
yet completely unaware
that an hour an forty five minutes ago
cupid died by drowning
in a tall glass of something strong
into which a young lass was crying.
Every dawn at this very time
he chokes on ***** or cigarette smoke
straight after posting
a suicide poem she wrote.
As his heart beat slows
eyes close
no one notices no one knows
incidentally another John Doe.
Disturbed by love songs
all night long
rocking back and forth
losing all control
she inevitably gives in
and revives him
only to watch him die again
the next day at 1.15 am

It's that time of the night; that time of the night
when you've made a new year's resolution to give up ****,
smoked the last cigarette and the shops are closed,
but sleep as it appears has little regard for the better person you are trying to be,
so you scroll through random videos and searches on how to beat insomnia to find,
Historic photos of love during wartime.
Suddenly you are craving for that kind of a grand love;
a love so great it hurts, it stops time,
it's commemorated years after,
but would it have to be a soldier?
Would there have to be a war, because #WorldPeace and #SayingNoToViolence is trendy at the moment,
so perhaps a sailor or an astronaut?
Does it have to come with an epic good bye, miles apart and no guarantee of return?
Though we all ache for an epic romance, that may be just a little too much work.
Suppose it's only natural when you're living a daydream and think in cliches,
the kind of love you sort after is ironic.
Is there just one?
Would it still be grand, hypothetically speaking, if it's lucky number six you are on,
As we've got the goodbyes, the distance and unpredictability down to a T,
before I become all dried out--- of love,
hope you'll make it rain, for me.

The Judge, me, walks in, settles down on the bench,
a cue for the jury, me, the accused, me,
and the defendant, you, to sit down.

It's a special kind of case at the Court of Conscience today.
No representation. No witnesses. No audience. Just
the parties affected and those who arbitrate. You and me.

Crime, Falling Out of Love! Walking away, leading you on,
not giving us a second chance, wasting your time, taking you
for granted and ripping your soul apart.

The accused, Pleads Guilty. As the law requires to discount
a third of the maximum sentence, the judge and the jury,
decide that the court will recess for three days.

I'm on bail but I cannot come within eye contact of you.
My guilty heart is tagged so each time I feel your pain,
sadness or anger, it alerts my brain and shocks it!

The court convenes. The judge clears her throat.
Because she's too emotional, along with the jury,
to even talk, let alone think clearly or decide.

"We find the defendant Guilty!". Guilty of
involuntarily man-slaughtering this relationship.
I sigh! Justice does not mean fair, not in law nor life.

The judge goes on. "However in this particular case
the sentence is to be decided by the defendant."
Because the ball is in fact in Your court!

When the hormones kicked in I do not know, but
somewhere in my teenage years I tripped on love.
An exchange of looks, a wave, a wink,
was all that took for my young heart to soar.

They were all northern stars,
shining brightly from a distance.
Taking me on illuminated journeys through the night,
only to get dimmer and leave me in the dark.

Some shone for longer, some twinkled brighter,
but only now do I know that sometimes the light we see,
are from stars that are already dead!
Thus, I was following death, though it seemed like light.

Maybe that's why my heart still aches,
from being lost alone in the darken sky;
why my world is filled with rains made of tears,
and emotions bursting into hurricanes.

Maybe that's why the wind refused to carry my cries,
and blew louder to drown them in it's wailing.
Maybe that's why the rainbow in my world,
is covered by dark clouds with no silver lining.

Maybe that's why like all other times,
he will not be mine; he will never stay.
Like other times I will wait for my star to shine,
almost see it, but then watch it die, again.

Today was special.
When I dressed up and put make up on,
and slipped on those high heels,
and did my hair to the side, sleek, straight and deep red,
I did it for me.
I sang and danced and sang and danced some more,
for me.
I hadn't smoked for 48 hours,
since you left me in my ball dress in that cold winter night,
smoking on my own,
I thought I'd quit.
I'd quit smoking and I'd quit you.
I was doing so well.
I almost made it but then....
I rolled one.
You were creeping in and out of my subconsciousness,
along with the urge for nicotine,
and I'm only human.
I'm fully aware of the consequences,
I've seen, heard and read the warnings,
on health advertisements and cigarette packets,
I know smoking and you are so bad for my heart,
but tonight I could really do with you...

At the basic stage of learning a language comes pairs of most commonly used antonyms,
words meaning opposites of each other like the earth and the sky,
far away and close by,
love and hate,
metaphorically speaking even you and me.
Except, sky begins right where earth stops,
so if you really think about it only the soles of our feet are truly grounded,
while our heads have always been in the clouds.
Distance is subjective, so depending on how fast a ride is or the resolution of a lens,
sunsets and full moons are that much closer than a lover's touch.
Love and hate are not two sides of the same coin,
or the extreme ends of the same spectrum,
but rather the same side of the same coin,
exuded by the same people at the same people for the same reasons,
interdependent,
coexisting,
one defining the other.
Well, I suppose that leaves you and me.
As in it literally leaves you and me out,
metaphorically speaking,
figuratively speaking,
theoretically speaking,
you and I aren't antonyms after all because,
as it appears we do not define each other or anything in between.
Like the ocean and a bumblebee.
Here I am calm and blissful with sunlight bouncing off of every wave,
dramatic and roaring, heightened with emotions soaring,
bearing an infinity of life, continuously giving, nurturing and upholding,
but all you want is honey;
metaphorically speaking.

Two weeks ago when you popped up on facebook chat,
and arranged to 'catch up' via skype today,
I should have known.

I should have known that just as it happened three years ago,
only I would stick to the deal,
I would be here waiting, cause I keep my promises.

But then again, today is the first of April.
**** it!
"Can't believe that I'm the fool again..."

Snowflakes stuck on the window pane,
mesmerizes me every single time.
Each with its own intrinsic pattern,
like fingerprints of a thousand angels,
scattered about delicately,
in multiple shades of pearly diamond dust,
trying hard to appear abstract,
but failing to disguise the meticulous magnificence
with which they have been created,
not only restoring faith in a divine power,
but also confirming she's an artist.
But, they say it's really bad for the window.

To think I was quenched by the drips of a rickety faucet,
when there was the whole ocean.
Now that I'm finally here,
I will stay.

'Brussels sprouts'...
The only healthy addition on a plate of Christmas dinner,
because even the carrots are tempered in butter,
but I never serve myself any,
'cause I couldn't give a **** about being healthy.
At one point I was eating roast potato with mashed potato
and everything else was covered in gravy, so...
I'm a very bad girl who avoid what's good.
I stay up real late and snack on junk food.
On night outs I drink to get drunk,
mixing all the spirits to heighten my *****.
Liver abused,
dressed to ******,
dancing like a stripper on the Vegas strip,
grinding, shaking, dropping, moving, all hard to resist.
Then there's the social smoking, and a few smoked alone.
Hush, about the latter. No one needs to know.
All the Friday nights, the strange men, in my bed.
What am I looking for? 'Cause it's sure as hell ain't ***.
Boycotting church for the past few weeks,
but my mom doesn't know so don't let it leak
that I'm a bad girl, that I've changed, that I'm lost,
that in trying to find myself, the soul was the ultimate cost.
That naive, innocent girl who ran into the world with open arms,
appears to have misplaced that certain charm.
She stares back through the mirror eyes clouded with pain,
because each time I tried to stand up society struck again.
So, I'm a very bad girl. Really very bad.
I spend my time wrestling guilt, and it drives me mad.

I wish there was some way I could express to you how you make me feel.
Though the common language we share is different from both our mother tongues,
though I can get over my fear of sounding incredibly self absorbed,
I just can't find the right words or the right way,
because it's a lot more than that.
You are a gift. You are a blessing. You are what everyone needs
because everyone deserve to be seen the way you see me.
You see beneath my beautiful, you see beneath my perfect, you
see the story underneath my clothes and every other song lyric written about being seeing for who one truly is.
I don't put make up on for you, hell I don't even shower,
and we've already talked about pooping, say what, right?
I cooked for you and I'm the most nervous cook cause I'm shadowed by the concepts of all real women having to be excellent cooks, and I was not nervous at all.
I've told you everything about me.
You are the only man in this whole wide universe who knows everything about me.
And you're still here. You still like me. I still make you laugh and you me.
I've never met someone so... so... human. I see the very essence of humanity gushing out of you its actually mesmerizing.
I must confess I smoke more now cause it's another excuse to spend more time with you.
I keep turning every few minutes to check the buttons on the lift hoping it goes all the way up to the 9th floor and bring you down to me.
I long to meet you its genuinely like a nicotine break, like how you wait for the lecturer to give the first interval to step out for a quick smoke.
It's exactly like that but so much stronger, and unlike nicotine you are good for me and I would never ever try to give you up.
You and I, its not ******.
Honestly, you are a brother, father, friend, soulmate, lover all combined in this surreal specimen of a man, even after one and a half months I cannot still believe I met you. Or more so that men like you exist.
I would love to take this to the next level, rip your clothes off and let you make sweet love to me,
but if that's not what you want I'm ok with being what we are right now.
I really am.
I guess I just want to say thank you for seeing me for who I am.
It's been so long and I really really needed this.
I now feel empowered and I will owe you my self-confidence and self-esteem,
honestly,
*kiitos

I wish I caught chickenpox two months and two weeks ago.
Who would have imagined the painful discomfort,
to have a direct correlation with remodelling my rationality.
Even after a speedy recovery and two weeks later, the scars
on my otherwise genetically-blessed-clear-face, and all over
my rather well shaped body symbolises a deep story.
Life is not worth wasting on those who don't care enough.
As insomnia struck night after night, mixing thoughts with
nightmares and episodes of Vampire Diaries excessively
watched through out the day on a laptop balanced on my
torso as I laid on my sick bed, I had plenty of time to think.
I thought about how Mr. X only contacts me when he
needs comfort, solace, assurance, care, all on his terms.
Mr. Y, only to gloat how he just had *** or if he needed
an ego boost, and he stopped texting all together long ago.
Mr. Z, who I thought was going too well to be true bailed
after our first date got cancelled due to me catching the pox.
All in all at every stage in my life for the past decade,
I have wasted my time on a Mr. Wrong and it's pathetic.
Apart from having a date on Valantine's day, making out,
endless string of inspiration to write shallow poetry,
I have gained nothing but heart break and sad memories.
The one time my mother would quote Beyonce to say,
they all turned out to be the best thing I never had.

Just when the ****** I found on your bedroom floor,
was finally clarifying our relationship as casual and nothing more,
you went and blabbed about your nan.
I wish you'd stop baring random bits of your soul,
when this has been nothing but a *******,
and quit crossing the line I keep drawing in the sand.

It wasn't until you pulled the carpet from underneath me
that I realized I was never the princess;
I was in fact the genie.
I had been blissfully unaware,
enjoying the view from up there,
dazzled by you,
when the world was never new.
I'm trapped in the dark now, again,
free falling through the starless sky.
It was never magic was it, just voodoo?
Well, no more wishes for you.

So you pulled again.
In Essex, in London, in Leeds, in Weymouth...
The list goes on.
Why do you always tell me?
I'm not jealous. You're just ******* them.
But that photo with your arm around her.
You ****** her too, I'm sure.
Complimentary of toga night you're pretty much semi-naked.
It was the two lipstick marks on your bicep that got me.
Not one, but two! On your perfectly firm, right bicep.
The one I gladly tied a blue ribbon around, whilst
my face was turning as pink as my Girl Power bandanna.
I hope you'll change back to the changed man you said you would be,
after the Fresher's fortnight is done.
If not, as opposed to ******* me emotionally,just **** me too.
It'll never be enough, but it's better than your smug texts! x

As I stare at you staring back at me
from my desktop background
I begin to realize
that closure is far from found.
If Da Vinci were a graphic designer
you would be his Mona Lisa.
With a smile harder to read
as it barely reach the eyes, you'll beat her.
Before I travelled thirteen hours
to be with you for just five
it somehow didn't
cross my pathetic mind
that there was no we
that you were never mine
and that I've done the ****** math wrong
for the umpteenth time.
You're a fortune cookie
empty inside
I'm blindly superstitious
and cannot stop trying.
It's skepticaly obvious
I'm most definitely just a friend,
what you are though
is simply impossible to apprehend.
Your image is like a paper cut
shallow yet agonizing
lurking in my sub-conscience
painfully reminding
how even after all these years
I'm shamefully prone to deceive
and keep sticking the broken pieces
of my heart back on my sleeve.
Like a nicotine rush at midnight
I crave you, I'm an addict,
but it's dark and cold, and all the shops are closed,
I'm left frustrated and feeling tricked.
However, amidst last evening's drunken frenzy
my hypothesis was proven untrue,
for I do not regret
kissing you...

My sweet sweet girl,
you should know that in this land of tormenting coldness
and mind numbing loneliness
you are my ray of hope.
We all need a source of positivity to draw on
and you are mine.
To laugh out loud for no apparent reason
to get drunk with on a Thursday afternoon
to talk about world politics, boys and the future
you are my partner in crime
the best wing woman
cheerleader
all in one.
Ironic isn't it?
Because I am that to many
and I used to think I was that too.
I guess sometimes even saviours need saving.
I was like you once, many many years ago.
Expecting the best of everything and everyone,
looking at the world through large, bright and sparkly lens of positivity.
I still do.
I still think there's something magical about snow,
stop in my tracks to watch jet paths in the sky,
give the benefit of the doubt to everyone,
and keep searching for Prince Charming.
Only difference is I now identify myself as delusional,
as opposed to optimistic.
The thing is love,
once you find yourself doubled up on the floor,
with every single blood cell infused with *****,
crying out to a God you perhaps no longer believe in,
to just bring you sleep, just this once,
so you can sleep through all this pain and darkness,
there is no turning back.
You can no longer unsee, unhear, undo, unbreak,
change becomes inevitable.
It used to be that if you don't bleed you are not ill,
so no one took us folk seriously when we said it hurts.
So the ******* shrinks drew a list of symptoms,
which did not include big smiles and out going personalities disguising the excruciating burning inside,
so once again no one really believes us when we say it hurts.
Unless we **** ourselves and finally everyone gathers around
with their shocked expressions of disbelief to claim,
'but she looked so happy',
when the first thing we all learnt was how looks could be deceiving.
Everyone looks for love in different places and have different ways of loving.
Specially parents.
You see I thought I broke and hit rock bottom many years ago.
To be honest it wasn't until my mother turned her back on me
that I realized what the definition of broken was.
Parents love their children and God knows mine loves me,
but on nights like this I just want to hear from my mother
that she loves me and believes in me,
but all I remember is the look in her eyes.
It was hatred. It was pure hatred.
Months later after supposedly patching up everything,
that look haunts me,
and breaks me a little bit more every single time.
But I am delusional so I see something profoundly poetic
in my brokenness.
I now truly know what the world holds.
So next time I see someone throwing her head back with a smile little too wide stealing the show,
I'm going to appreciate her effort so much more,
because its not easy to remain delusional.
I hope this world will only bring the very best to you.
I hope you will only know love, acceptance, admiration and success.
As for me,
I hope one day I will be able to stop getting broken,
or in the least get used to the pain.

The moment that cold breeze snuck up on me at Euston,
as I stood on the right side of the escalator blissfully unaware,
and playfully ruffled my dangerously short dress,
is when I must have caught the scandalousness in the air.
The specks of Spring light appearing somewhat bright,
played tricks on my mind, rather late that night.
Arms linked as the stride casually synchronized,
while the start of the weekend brought the weary streets to life.
Thighs met over two Chai Lattes in the corner of a little Cafe,
as his aftershave wrestled Cinnamon into a subtle yet alluring foreplay.
The world went by completely unaware, as we
gallivanted down memory lane in search of a future under a sycamore tree.
If only the heart could be locked away in the Tower of London,
safely among fragile jewels coerced from Sunny lands.
Instead, the unfinished kiss in Leicester Square,
has confounded it to pursue a far more adventurous plan.

You make me worry about losing my memory.
Because right now I've reached a stage where I've forgotten to forget you,
so if I really did lose my memory I wouldn't just be losing my identity,
but also you.
And the problem is, I can live without knowing myself,
but wouldn't survive a second without knowing you.

You make me want to write poems.
My fingers crave to type endlessly until I've written more words than
the bible and the encyclopaedias A-Z combined into infinity,
but my brain numbs.
I'm bilingual but thinking of you makes me inarticulate in both, and
fluent in clichés instead.

You make me feel like a 16 year old...scrap that, a 14 year old,
falling in love for the first time, and I'm neither.
Lately I've been spending a lifetime editing photos of you and me,
on Microsoft Paint, adding hearts and stars and lipstick marks.
And tagging you in every quote, video, song and photo on facebook,
provided they have a remote connection to something romantic.

You make me want to break Pastor Aeternus ,
after 12 years of Sunday school, as a student and a teacher.
I want to travel between Testaments, arguing with prophets and saints,
trying to explain how you make me feel, crave, arouse.
Because each time we meet, even before we speak, or touch,
the demon within me is awaken, beholding the paradise in your eyes.

You make me want to ****** you, even after 4 months,
and 3 weeks, of a solid relationship.
To wear make-up and high heels, to dress up or down or... not,
provoking, tempting and coaxing to take a bite out of the same apple,
but deeper, tying you to the bed and taking you in a kitchen, just
to see that pure expression of bliss on your face.

You make me search the depth of my soul, the bottom of my heart and
every corner of my mind, for more love to give you, everyday.
Paint the future in any colour, shape or form, and when you're done,
place me in it, because I will always fit right in, just like when we spoon.
Someday, when we're standing next to God I will ask him to show you
the timeline, when he sent you from heaven into my life, because

only an Angel could make this fragile heart, fall in love again.

I know a man who you can learn a thing or two from.
A master of the art of ******* and manipulation.
Someone who can make me lose complete control,
stomp on self-respect and smother all dignity.
A man who makes me want to offer him ***, along
with the rest of me and the best of me, on a platter.
One who makes me shudder with frenzy, by
merely existing. By texting. By a text. Once a fortnight.
Whilst you're the lead in a best selling fiction,
he is the only player in my fantasy. Coincidence?

*"Christian, meet Samuel."

W** hen you eventually turn up
r omance and
o ptimism would be
n onextant; long
g one.

When you light a fire
to get rid of the darkness,
and end up burning all your bridges...

I* smoked a cigarette today.
Sitting outside alone in the cold night,
under the bewitching full moon light,
trying to endure the moment, but 'twas  windy.

Familiar triangle.* You are heartbreakingly
beautiful yet impossible to reach.
Loving you is self-destructive. Regardless,
I do and your enticement will never last.

Hey there (if you're there at all),
I sincerely hope all is well.
Guess you're really swamped with work,
honestly no need to explain, I could just tell.
See the thing is... the thing is, there is actually a thing.
Something has come up.
It's quite hard to explain cause I don't yet know what we are,
so if we are kind of a 'thing', then I want to breakup.
You don't write to me any more
and I really miss those emails
witty comments, sarcasm and ******* banter
strung together with immaculate grammar and ample clichés.
You seem to have forgotten that I didn't fall for you back then
and very little had changed since.
So three years later when you contacted me out of the blue
I was hardly convinced.
As a preplanned holiday got in our way
placing you 5 hours behind and 5000 miles apart
it was that daily email exchange over a month
which gave whatever it is we have now, its start
not calls, not facebook nor skype,
just words, simple phrases and our ability to type.
Essence of your raw personality seeped through
enticing me to a very pure, untampered version of you.
Since I returned, since we met, things haven't been the same.
Are you trying to gain the upper hand of this game?
Because, I wasn't even aware we were playing,
so technically neither can win, such a shame.
I appreciate your intellect, ambition, success
and middle class upbringing,
those random gestures of affection
and passionate *******.
I understand your commitments
and the hierarchy of your priority que
But just because I get it
doesn't mean I'll agree to put up with them too.
It's true, my future is rather blurry
but that's a different thing.
I might be chronically needy
but I'm not asking you for a ring.
I do however fancy flowers
and would really like to go dancing
a daily doze of 'you're thinking of me'
topped with very large amounts of cuddling.
If all I wanted was to get laid,
there was plenty of opportunity to be swayed.
Time to end this hand has come a little too late
with a Royal Flush in Spades.
I will miss those endearing emails,
and the 12th floor of your office with its magnificent view.
I will miss the idea of having a man in my life,
but I won't so much miss you.

Like the tide,
you, will, rise and fall, impossible to hold on to.
Just as a pattern emerges
your personality synchronises with the British weather.
Like a long summer evening in Shanghai you are warm and bright,
carefree as an afternoon breeze.
Making me smile, laugh, blush
such a tease.
Car rides into the sunset with
the windows down and the music up
sharing cigarettes.
But as you pull those dark shades over your eyes and soul
the rain begins to pour
the intimacy washes away
trust astray
several steps apart
from the inch we grew closer yesterday.
Laid back, insecure, self-centred, unreliable,
unstable, restless and emotinally unavailable
yet somehow charmingly mystic
surprisingly dashing
talented and well bred
unattainably captivating
naively helpless
shy
thus I cannot pin point why
I am drawn.
I regret not kissing you
and know I would still have
if I did...

"Oh, I see. It's your passion is it?
You like learning about them? Wow. You got a first?
You are planning to go into research? On that very subject?
I'm really very impressed. I see! You avoid buying products,
made using them?
You don't even consume them? That's quite lovely.
You must be really strong willed.
You like talking to people about it?
Oh yes, those big companies; definitely their fault.
You want to stop them? That's one of your goals?
Excellent. I admire your passion!

Sorry, what was that? Is that so?
You will never care for one? It's a silly idea is it?
Yes, of course, you are right.
There might be no end result.
A waste of time, money and energy.
Messing with nature it will be, is it?
A childish way of holding on to silly hopes.
Really? Scientifically you are hundred percent right.
That's nice to know. With your dedication towards the subject,
I guess you would know for sure.

Guess what!
F@#$ your passion. F@#$ your dedication.
F@#$ your knowledge and F@#$ science.
You made a choice not to care. You don't give a ****.
You know why? It's the easier way. Shortest way out.
Because you don't want to be involved,
in an 'emotional commitment'.
It's too difficult. You will never gain anything.
But there's so much to lose.

But me;
I am different. I am not afraid to connect.
Not afraid to give unconditionally. Not frightened to commit.
Cause as long as there is hope, my dream will be alive.
If or when hope dies, the pain, the memories, the emotions
and the love,
and the fact that I know I cared,
will keep me alive.

Oh and guess what...you've just lost!
You've lost again in life.
Your interests lack real passion.
Your work lacks dedication.
Your knowledge lacks emotion.
Your life lacks fulfillment.
So let me do the math.....one more second please...
Got it....
That equals to emptiness...
In fact you are already dead; inside! Lifeless...."

Like smoking and faith in God,
no matter how hard I try to give up,
think rationally and move forward,
when I see your face,
I'm addicted,
I'm a believer,
a cliche,
over and over again...

Bend me over and take me from behind.
My palms on the window sill, and yours against my body until,
our breath steams up every surface in the room as the night stands still.
Take your time.
Moving like a lazy ocean's wave teasing the shore, leaving me gasping for more,
one hand pulling my hair back and the other holding me tight, do not let go.
Blow my mind.
Let the beat of your heart make me grind, real fine, touch me in places no one else can find,
as beads of sweat fall from my forehead onto the face leaving me momentarily blind.
Make me moan.
Turn me around, wrap my legs over your hips and lift me right off the ground,
and as my arms grasp your neck, kiss me, before I could make a sound.
Hear me groan.
As our tongues wrestle, let my ears feel the deep growls escaping your throat,
use your every skill to give me a thrill, unleash that ****** warrior within and let him gloat.
Explode!
While my nails scratch the path to heaven on your back, and we both lose track,
and my eyes look into yours watching me watching you come to a perfect ******.
Oh, God!
Stay inside me as I shudder in ecstatic response, with my head buried in your shoulder,
caress and burn me with your macho warm embrace as the night keeps getting colder.
Smile.
A naive, genuine smile which speaks for all the feelings unsaid,
as you carry me over our discarded clothes onto the uncreased bed.
Dream.
As I watch you sleeping whilst running my fingers gently through your hair,
looking peaceful, content, mesmerizing, spellbinding, I can't help but stare.
Stay...

I despise you
not for being the sexist, fascist, racist,
unreliable twit you are,
but rather for making me say
"I told you so" to myself,
for the fourth time.

Do you remember your first one night stand? The very first?
It's funny how in all the wrong ways it's very much like in the movies,
but in some it's not, which often leaves you properly ****** up,
many days after the actual *******.
It always starts with *****.
***** you absolute poisonous ambrosia, tell me how can you resemble
love so very well?
From the exaggerated self-confidence, delusional happiness to the shame and atrociously bitter after taste, not to mention the ****** of a hangover,
you my friend might well be love's virtuous twin.
What does 'a one night stand kind of girl' look like?
I used to think 'definitely not like me',
but tonight the discoloured mirror in my bathroom begs to differ.
She looks remarkably like me. She is me.
Perhaps there's an equation with variables of age, time and the amount of one night stands which calculates how well one fits into the model,
irrespective of the math somehow she looks strikingly similar to me.
Ability to dance topped with confident is my kryptonite.
So after dancing so **** fine, when he looked me dead straight in the eyes, and said "I want to take you home, kiss you and *******",
like hell I couldn't resist.
Everything was just like in the movies right down to the clothes
scattered all over the floor, leaving without getting his number, and
the infamous walk of shame.
But,
he was gentle.
He asked "is this really what you want" even at the very last moment,
when his naked body was lying on top of mine,
fractions of an inch away from entering me,
which made me think of my unborn son and how I will teach him about self control, respect and the vitality of consent.
How this is what a true gentleman behaves like, even when the beast within him was roaring to be unleashed.
He held me tight all night long.
He buried his face in my neck and wrapped his arms so tightly around me, I could feel his heart beat through my veins.
His cologne ran all night long and into the morning reminding me how much I used to get turned on by men's aftershave, one of my favourite scents in the world,
right amongst freshly baked cookies, rain on dry grass and wall paint.
This was not like in the movies.
As I bid him goodbye and locked his fancy apartment door behind me,
I felt rudely shaken awake from the day dream, I felt something in me drop.
It wasn't because I knew I would never see him again,
but rather 'cause I knew later tonight I'd remember last night and miss the sensation over and over again.
The phenomenon of feeling desired, the warmth that accompanies hours of drunken ***, the sweaty stickiness, the giddiness, the passion that accompany a one night stand.
Not being alone.  
A warm bed.
I knew I will miss all that. I miss all that.
I forgot my wristwatch on his bedside table.
Made me think of the time I lost.
The time I lost calculating the significant impact a one night stand would have on my dignity.
The time I am loosing thinking about the past, though so very raw and fresh, which remains unattainable.
I also forgot my earrings on the floor next to his bedside table, when I removed them in  hurry in the heat of the moment, in fear of accidentally scraping him.
Us girls, we do that a lot.
We remove pieces of ourselves to avoid hurting the fugitive men who walk in and out of our lives, and leave those pieces behind,
without realizing that with every encounter we were becoming less and less like our true-selves.
Both pieces were cheap gifts from someone in the family that I held to for many years.
They made up in sentiment what they lacked in price.
Very much like virginity.
You realize after sometime like religion, race and nationality its a socially constructed concept.
It is only as valuable and important as you want it to be.
Virginity should not define anyone.
"Virginity should not define you", I said to the girl in the mirror.
For a one night stand kind of girl, her eyes were so judgmental.

Is when I trace the purple bruises
and the scarlet scrape marks on my arm,
longing to feel your dominating grip
disarming me one more time...

When the man at the hardware store asks,
what shade of blue are you looking for sugar,
to paint the walls of our hypothetical son's room,
I would have said heartbreak,
the same shade of heartbreaking blue as his daddy's eyes.
Ironic, because I would have rooted for a gender neutral colour,
an agnostic upbringing and a liberal education,
but somewhere down this erratic, dysfunctional relationship,
I stopped caring, or perhaps, cared only of you.
Since you left there's nothing to care about,
there's no you, there's no us, there's no motivation,
my priorities, values and aspirations are still maintaining a distance,
I'm feeling a heartbreaking shade of blue.
Like that one time I got high on dried out ****,
I was completely aware of every stage of this breakup,
the shock, the disbelief, the sadness, the pain, the regret,
until it stopped.
The world has come to a standstill,
leaving me tripping between spring and snowflakes on the windowsill,
I'm not coming down from the high, or low,
I should have got you out of my system 4 years ago.
It's not a linear process, said my friend,
and I know what he means,
because for everyday I get through without thinking of you,
I spend weeks curled up in pain in bed or on the floor,
feeling a heartbreaking shade of blue.
Kept awake at night, weary, paranoid and deluded,
suffocated, drowned in despair, sometimes even in air,
in the shallow words, empty promises and plans made,
thrown into solitary confinement among hundreds of other people,
breaking me, when I'm already broken.
All while you stripped me of my dignity, intuition and optimism,
disregarded my needs, exploited my insecurities and wasted my heart,
I thought I knew you,
come to think of it, I don't think your eyes are blue.

When ever I think of you, which is all the time,
my breath gets caught up in an invisible barrier.
I  j u s t  c a n n o t  BREATH!
My body freezes and I have to hold onto the closest,
steady surface for support until my breathing pattern returns
back to normal.
Christ! I think you literally take my breath away!

Next thing I know, as my mind wonders from one thought
of you to another, my heart beat races and slows down, races
and slows down. It's completely irregular just like my breathing,
I feel blood gushing to my face, I'm blushing, then suddenly
I'm pale, as if all life is drained out of me I can hardly feel the
rhythm of my own pulse. Now when I come to think of it,
I guess this is you making my heart skip a beat!

I am caught up between memories and hopes, so very detached
from the reality, I'm laughing and crying at the same time,
and I have no words to describe how I feel or what I feel. It's as if
you've opened a portal to my soul from where words flow along with
a giant avalanche of raving emotions, it actually hurts 'cause I
wonder if you know, if you feel at all, I'm here, you're there,
nothing makes sense, it's just not fair...

When you looked me straight in the eye and said,
'The other night you were so drunk I thought,
"man, I could totally take advantage of her."
Could've gotten straight into your pants',
I was shocked.
I had been right all along.
All those times your eyes danced in amusement
whilst you forced your mouth to stop twitching
I already knew what was going through your mind.
But tonight thanks to half a dozen pints
you've said it all and there is no turning back.
I was shocked,
by my reaction, my immediate reply,
"so why didn't you?"
though not spoken out loud,
was clearly heard in my seductive smile.
When you put one arm around me forcing me into a hug
and tried to kiss me on the lips
I moved away.
When you grasped my wrists with your hands and pinned me down
leaving bruises in the shape of your fingers
I threatened to bite you.
When you squeezed the back of my neck with one hand
just to prove how big your palm was
I struggled to break free.
Reactions which felt were called for.
Reactions which were expected and appropriate.
But,
part of me, **** that, all of me,
enjoyed the sensation
of that feeling of helplessness
as you slowly overpowered me
the playful manhandling
the alien sense of control and authority.
Even hours later
I'm stroking the bruises on my wrists wistfully.
The back of my neck is tingling whilst reminiscing.
A part of my soul darker than your skin has been unveiled
and I'm shocked.
I would like you to do all that to me again
one on one
in an empty place
and I think I will enjoy the gentle pain.

If I were white, blond and blue eyed, with
long legs, ample ******* and sharp cheekbones...
Or
If I were icy cold, with hardly any soul, and
simply on a mission to use and discard all men...
Or
If I were a lot less chatty and far more witty, said
all the right things and didn't laugh so loudly...
Or
If I were really good at water-polo, swimming, sailing or
some sport, had mastered an art or multiple languages...
Or
If I were the kind to have casual *** and just move on
like nothing ever happened other than casual ***...
Or
If I were more of a chase, played hard to get, and wasn't
automatically responsive to all and any whimsical...
Or
If I were not Me...

                                                          ­                                                              Wou­ld you feel anything for me?
                                                             ­                                                                 ­                      Would you care?
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                Would you?

Eventually,
my favourite cocktail turned out to be
a Cosmopolitan.

It's common knowledge that after getting a phone number,
one must wait three whole days before giving a call,
to make sure the interaction remains calculatedly casual,
as opposed to needy or uninterested,
which is complete cupid ****!
It's appalling that one's intense desire to contact an individual one is drawn to,
is not seen as a mere gesture of sentiment or affection,
but rather weakness and vulnerability.
Even in the darkest and drunkest hours
there will be no super likes,
for no one can afford to wear the heart on their sleeves,
in this world of left and right swipes.
The chase is so overrated not only does it never end,
but also overlooks the catch even when it's finally caught.
True feelings disguised by emojis concentrated into 140 characters
ridicule the ideology of love and romance,
when really we're nostalgic of the times,
we once murmured into brick sized cordless phones at wee hours in the morning,
"you hang up... nooo you hang up first..."
When did meeting the parents not become meeting the parents,
but rather the quick show of another chick to flaunt how well life is going at the moment?
When did compartmentalizing life mean pursuing romantic relationships over the weekends only?
When did to love, to want, to need, to show affection become such girly things,
those who are engulfed by romantic comedies and sensitivity did?
All I really want is to call you and tell you how much I miss you,
and just listen to you breath even if you don't have anything to say.
But, I guess I'll just wait for you to whatsapp me sometime during the weekend...

Babe,
if you were my man I'd start off by calling you babe.
I think it's **** in a confident to the point kind of way, just like my love for you.
I would run into your arms in a ***** dancing lift kind of manner each time I see you, just because that's how excited I would be to see you, every single time.
I would kiss you. I would ******* ravish you with my tongue, lips, teeth, and you will know what it's like to kiss, what it's like to really kiss.
I would run my fingers, all of them, through your hair sweeping it back from your face and just hold you really close to mine, spending an eternity figuring out what colour your eyes really are,
cause you'd always crinkle them when we're together, cause I'd make you smile, laugh and happy all the time,
so I'd have never really seen what colour they really are, and when I find out it wouldn't matter anyway,
cause that will be my favourite shade of eye colour to begin with.
I would sit on your lap and put my arms around your neck and continue to tell my aimless yet superbly animated stories of things I saw, people I met, thoughts in my head, when all I really want is to be just that close to feel the heat of your body, your pulse and your gaze.
I will cook for you and make you do the dishes just so I can stand next to the counter and watch you align them on the drying rack with ridiculous precision, which I find lethally adorable.
I would re-learn physics, follow football, play video games, listen to punk rock all of which I really dislike, just so I can be another step closer to your world.
I would do anything, absolutely anything for you, and let you do anything to me, cause I trust you a 100%, interestingly the only man I can say that about other than my father.
I would learn to speak your language just so I can meet your family for Christmas and thank your parents from the very bottom of my heart for bringing you into this world and raising you to be the man you are.
I would however never try to change you.
I would preserve you and the perfect, raw, uncontaminated essence of humanity you carry, and rather change, adapt and give up myself to be with you.
I would vouch to spend the rest of my life with you, change my name for you and bear your children.
Babe,
if you were my man I would in a heart beat die or **** for you, and the latter over and over again.
I know you would never want me to change and like me for who I am,
ironically,
you wouldn't be my man.

I have a dream.
Not a noble, revolutionary one that will change the discourse of humanity,
but one which would most definitely change my own life,
and possibly yours.
We are driving in your car, which in my imagination is a dark blue skoda octavia, but frankly it doesn't matter,
'cause I'm smiling looking out the window and fighting with you over the radio channel choice.
The smell from the basket of muffins I baked secured on the back seat is wafting through the air,
and I'm playfully slapping away your wondering right hand up my left thigh which the little white summer dress I'm wearing can in no way cover,
only to reach out and ruffle your hair and the back of your neck 'cause I truly can never get enough of you.
You are smiling too, 'cause you know, you always do.
100 miles later as we pull in front of your childhood home I'm excited and nervous at the same time,
so you do have to coax me out of the car and we walk hand in hand to the door and just as you reach out to ring the bell,
I hide behind you trying to pull myself together and touch up on my smile,
but as the door opens I'm back by your side smiling 'cause your grip on my hand is more assuring than anything I've felt before.
I'm shy at first but your mom is lovely,
though it must be hard to see her little boy next to another woman,
God knows I could never share you.
The twinkle in your dad's eyes may as well be a reflection of yours,
his handshake is strong, warm and reassuring.
Your little brother, whose already growing on me, is making eyes at you and you're warning him, almost threatening him to behave, silently of course, it's all in the eyes.
I take in the house,
the corridors through which you ran, fell and got up again,
the walls which echo your laughter, pain, sorrow, fears, achievements and failures,
and stood strong throughout every step of your life's journey in becoming the man you are,
it's like a story, a novel or a theatrical extravaganza unfolding in front of my eyes.
I follow your mom to the kitchen, not because I want to be the perfect domesticated future daughter in law,
but rather because it's where I find comfort.
The stove and oven are hard at work, and I immediately take over peeling potatoes,
as I try to make conversation with your mom in my incredibly limited vocabulary,
and I can tell she appreciates the effort.
When we sit to eat I'm already at home and I just cannot stop smiling,
because it's absolutely perfect.
It's a little too perfect.
After all it's just a dream. My dream. A cliché.
But dreams, hopes and expectations apart I just wish I knew,
if we were more than ***.
If I knew I'd at least have the truth,
because we both know dreams, particularly the perfect ones,
almost never come true.

F* ickle summer [and general] pass-time. Though you hardly
A cknowledge me, I meditate on the virtual probability of our
N on-existent romance, incessantly. Just as I make an effort to
A ttempt to bury you in a dark corner of my subconciousness, *you
T ext me! Once again giving me just enough attention so that I'm
I ndifferent to your self-centred, egoistic, promiscuous nature and
C ompletely falling for you instead, as I've done, since the day we first met.

I feel drunk all the time.

You are on my mind like a sweet hangover [if such a thing is possible].
Oh, but it must be. Your eyes, the colour of dark Amaretto, I could stare
at them intensely, casually, aimlessly, eternally, until I'm completely drowning
in your bitter sweet gaze.

Just thinking of you literally makes my heart flutter. I can feel
this giant ache, a longing perhaps pulling my heart in multiple directions.
Every single alarm bell in my brain is going off and I know
this has to stop specially since it never began, and even when I can
actually taste the foreseen heartbreak like the smell of cheap *****, I still
crave for you, the alcoholic I am.

I want to savour you as I would a glass of Baileys on a summer evening.
But right now I frankly don't care. Give it to me as a single shot of Absynth,
and I'll down it in one go, because

Baby, I'm addicted to you!

As I'm sobering up
from your intoxicating hazel gaze,
realizing the spark I've been seen
is merely the reflection of my own,
I find myself no longer lost in your eyes,
but simply... lost.

My parents' worst nightmare,
becoming my most enchanted dream...

       A
    (0_0)  
       B
    h O i
w    Y      te
      i  e  
   r       n
f             d

I don't want to be your
Friday night girl,
one night stand,
end of a busy week's treat,
or pastime.

I definitely don't want to be your
fetish,
score,
drunk companion,
or ****** relief.

If I'm being perfectly honest (to myself),
I'm rather confident,
I don't want to be anything of yours at all...

We could have had a baby.
It was just enough time to have a child, to
let it grow inside me, to see the bump get bigger, and
bigger, and for it to be born just today, wailing loudly
so everyone around is aware of its much awaited presence.

But we don't. We have ended just like that. Yes,
I ended it just like that and I'm still uncertain what
triggers a girl, me, to let go of the only man in the whole
world who loves her, you, I will never figure out.

I'm confused, lost and broken, and without the
privilege of being able to feel sorry for myself.
Fighting the hardest battle I've fought in a while,
trying to stop myself from running back to you.

I loved you. Somewhere not too deep down I still do. But,
for a while it hasn't been enough and I'll never know why,
because your sad smile and the lingering smell of your
after shave as we hugged for the last time still haunts me!

The kitchen scissors met my hair,
before the bathroom mirror.
I had run out of cigarettes.
He didn't text back.

I wonder what we are trying to do.
Are we trying to write our love story,
or fit into the characters of one that's already written,
by just you or just me or an anonymous author or society?
Either way as it appears improvisation is not our forte
and the plot is yet to thicken.
Do we really have things in common, or
pretending to believe in the opposites attract notion?
I can see us shaving bits and bobs of ourselves off,
as usual me more than you,
and wedging mismatched corner pieces together,
almost hoping we'll some how stick, grow and evolve,
like a transplanted ***** or a candle wick in wax,
when in reality all we are is a badly in-completed puzzle.
We share a sense of brokenness and a fear of being broken,
so together we are skeptical of most things, and all people,
and hold our emotions hostage,
while using emoticons and gifs instead,
hoping if we play independent and self-love cards often enough,
we'll somehow win the hand,
when no one knows the rules of the game,
except that the stakes are really high.
Perhaps what we are doing is to see if we can walk together,
you on your side of the road and me mine,
sometimes one leading the other, and sometimes side by side.
But if neither one of us knows where we are going,
will the journey still be worth the while?

I'm craving a man-hug tonight,
initiated by strong arms picking up my under weight body
letting me believe I'm re-enacting the lift from ***** dancing.
And as those arms hold me close
I would bury my face in his neck
where after shave meets his soft pulse and the warmth of my breath.
This hug would be so tight,
tight enough to squeeze the pain out of my soul
and be incredibly protective at the same time
beating away the nightmares of reality late at night.
A hug that draws out all the tears that should have been cried
until my eyes run dry
and start shedding all the rejection accumulated throughout this plight.
An unconditional man-hug with its ends free,
one not subjected to a **** in my mouth
a cigarette
*****
a cigarette
couple of poems
insomnia
and a cold bed.
I crave for a man-hug that will liberate me
from the pathetic standards I've set for myself,
of how I should be treated before handing a piece of me in exchange.
One that would numb the little voice in my head
which goes on and on
about self-deprecating *******
bundling together all the mistakes made over the years
and spanking my self-confidence
until it dresses up in a short skirt and high heels
and runs into the arms of a narcissist *****.
A man-hug to step in and save the day
when loneliness breaks in,
and murders empowerment, independence and positivity in their sleep,
then opens the door to insecurity and fear,
who robs all hope,
leaving behind intolerable darkness.
I crave for a man-hug that follows through to the end
with stability and consistency,
like mom's cooking or my best friend,
or daddy's instant reaction to defend.
One that's tangible and attainable
without twirling my fingers around forgotten jewellery,
phone messages
or a drunk memory
just to remind myself what it felt like,
but only to be reminded that it can never be felt again.
Though I'm craving a man-hug tonight
I will have no luck.
Because anything with "man" in front of it,
will always just be a ****.