How long does it take for wounds to close and scars to lighten? 9 years down the road and I think I start to remember it less. Tracing the faint lines on my thigh, your questions were inevitable and the little demons start to surface and latch on. Perhaps in the future, the past will not matter so much but for now, it wraps around my wrists too tightly and surely. How long does it take for the memory of a wound to disappear? Perhaps forever, but time is relative.


It's not really magical but everything becomes bad after 12 and it's alluring. With you, nothing ever goes right and everything about us is wrong. Get even, get angry, get back and then get caught with all the leftover feelings that spill out from our mouths into the holes of our clavicles. Get caught. Bad. But get lost with all your truths because it's the fiction that make us work.

Writing bullshit on how to sustain relationships and building towards the future - but what the future is not the ideal for some of us? What if some of us have no future? What if some of us don't want the future? And that's why our relationship failed. You focused too much of the future and lost sight of why I was restless in the present. I was anxious over the uncertainty of our future instead of seeing how perfect our present could be. If I had learnt this earlier, we'd be okay.

The truth is, you were really perfect for me then and perhaps now too, who knows? Fuck the future.


Every action has a consequence and an underlying meaning to it and I am more than aware of knowing what I'm saying when I don't say anything. My priorities don't look right sometimes and I admit that I do certain things out of spite. One thing for sure - I am aware of how I come across to you when I do, or don't do things.

And slowly, I've come to be unbothered about what people think of me not because I'm rooted in my belief of who I am but because I hate myself so much that I think it doesn't matter anymore cos how bad can I be in your eyes?

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And so it is that certain night I recall the nights that I couldn't have possibly lived in because what is it that I miss when I've never had it to begin with? The fingers of wind go through my hair and the cold lights press against my cheek - it's almost a very pretty picture of a sham that I've painted for myself. And in the whispers that creep up against my neck to my ears, in the quiet wisps of breath sliding up the back to my ears, I always forget what you say.


"How can you expect other people to love you if you don't love yourself?" It's a fallacy, it means nothing and those two things situations have no relation. Whatever the fuck I do to myself and whatever I feel about myself has no bearing on other people's feelings towards me. Plus, what is this fucking expectation shit we're talking about anyway? Why should you care if I loved myself or not?

But a couple of months ago I realised this: it's not about other people - it's that we're scared to death that someone could even want to like this monstrosity of a body and mind. It's disgusting and it's a joke. Every time people show interest and immediately you think it's got to be a fucking prank. Cos who the fuck in their right minds will love this?

It's a self-indulgent thing but at the same time true because insecure people, think about themselves all the time, don't they. It's always about me, baby.


In the tangled mess of lies and truth that we aim to keep afloat in a relationship, I'm afraid that it's not what matters anymore. I keep asking myself why was it that my last serious relationship failed (Was I too young and he too old? Was it my wavering heart?) and maybe I could do better the next time round. But the truth is, I knew the answers a long time ago but I don't see the need to test it because that's not what the boys are game for as well anyway.

Stories and plays and movies about affairs bother me because I can't remember if I was a victim or the perpetrator. But in the essence of love, maybe it doesn't matter who did what.


It aches when the old cracks can be seen again. Was the white wash too thin or is it time and again that the wall needs a new coat of paint? I move backwards and read the things I've written and - did I really write that? How? It aches when I delude myself into thinking that the things I see are real. In between deciding the right place and time to live and be, I've forgotten the here and now.

These last couple of months... I've been told that what I think I do best is not that great after all. All I want to do is write fiction and live life the way I want.