Something Like This But Not This

26 November 2016


Look, I'm not here to tell you how big someone's dick is, or how many people I've slept with. I'm certain some boy will exaggerate those figures for you in an effort to prove his masculinity or degrade me by calling me a slut. I'm not here to send you the dick pics in my phone or tell you all the lies I've heard in bed. If you're looking for a diary of a nymphomaniac, you're in the wrong place.

Because while I'm not here to tell you how many orgasms I've faked, I can tell you that I've become a clumsily-made collage of all the boys who touched me; a patchwork quilt of bad habits nobody wants. My craving for everything fleeting is from the first boy who broke my heart, my nail-biting is French and impeccably dressed, and all the clutter in my room belongs to that boy with the cat named Gandalf. 

I'm not here to tell you about people's fetishes, but I can tell you that I spiral into something that resembles depression after every one night stand, mourning all the love I could never have. I live for those first few waking moments on a Sunday morning when there's nothing but contentment beside a warm body. Until he asks me to leave his apartment because his girlfriend is coming over. Until it's time to put on yesterday's clothes and I come home a crime scene with fingerprints all over my body and the stench of guilt emanating from somewhere within me.

I swear I didn't intend to move 6000 kilometers away from home just to vandalize another city with my heartache. In a place that's 4 million hearts strong, trust that you can find me chasing after all the empty ones. It's not that I'm stupid --not in the conventional sense, at least--, it's just that this giving heart is a blessing and a curse with its penchant for bleeding for all the wrong people. See, my mother never scolded me for brushing my teeth so hard until my gums bleed, streaks of red marbling my spit. My friends would always buy me new succulents after I tell them I've over-watered yet another one. I once spent two whole years harping on and on about a month-long fling, and strangers called it poetry. My own brand of idiocy has always been ignored or applauded, but no one really taught me that there's a difference between being fuckable and being lovable.

I guess this is what happens when you're a tourist spot so desperate to become home. Your foundations start to crack in an attempt to distort yourself until you're a heap of debris on the ground but people are still staring and taking their damn pictures. This is what happens when you don't open up but always leave the door unlocked: people come and go and often never come back. This is it. This is what it's like to try to suppress your willingness to love and be loved by letting your body do the talking. This is what it's like to still believe in pancakes on a Sunday and never leaving bed, but having to make do with scraps of fake intimacy instead.

Look, I'm not here to spill all my secrets but I can tell you some of the universe's. I can tell you that those who hurt you the worst are the most beautiful because their faces have never been disfigured with love. And apparently, just because he wants you tonight doesn't mean he will want you tomorrow morning or the following afternoon. Fuckable is not the same thing as lovable.

Photo by: Magritte Kauffman

4 comments

  1. This is beautifully written, baby girl.

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  2. Dark but poignantly beautiful. Every word bleeds as I read through it. I love the piece but I hate the pain in it. I don't know what to feel anymore! Aaaah but this was wonderfully written indeed.

    annescribblesanddoodles.blogspot.com | Bloglovin' | Instagram

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  3. Ahhh this is such a beautiful piece. It's very well written. I'm glad I saw your blog. And I love that we have the same theme :)

    Nikaia | www.wheresnika.com

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