I wrote one of these long ago, maybe this time last year, maybe not. Chances are, reader, that you’re not that dedicated as to scroll all the way back or have followed me since before I had my own domain. Maybe you are,

I don’t know you. 

Maybe I do, ha. 

Do you want me to open up a little? Give you an anecdote or two to tide you over? Aid your ailments or just make you feel a little better about yourself? Whether you want it or not, you’re getting it. But it’s not, like, forced or anything….

Breathe in. 

Breathe out. 

That’s the motion of existence. 

I was in an abusive relationship for years. It was one of those things where at the time I was in denial like, maybe I thought that’s what ‘love’ was but looking back I know for damn sure I was never in love with him and things weren’t okay. 

I took long showers just to cry or get off with the shower head. I never once thought of my boyfriend when splashy over there was working his magic. I spent days on the sofa in silence lacking attention, conversation, any kind of human connection. My phone never buzzed unless I was out sans him, which was rare. 

Worked long hours to pay the bills and fuel a gaming addiction that wasn’t mine. I was the soul provider of the house. Notice I say house and not home? 

I hadn’t a voice to speak of. Ironic. 

I didn’t write. For four years, not a word with the exception of carefully curated shopping lists so I could shop with maximum efficiency on a minimum budget; some would say shoestring, I’d say single strand of brittle hair snapping with no warning at either end. I was suffocating beneath a pillow of the ugly kind of control. 

I didn’t sing. I forgot how to be a bird. 

I played video games for long hours when I wasn’t working, which was also rare. I now have a love/hate relationship with video games. There are some I just won’t go near with a ten foot pole. 

I struggled to read though my library grew. I struggled to draw though I collected pencils like they were going out of fashion. I couldn’t keep track of anything. I lost myself. 

Four years and in four minutes it was over. Suddenly I found my soul buried beneath pages and pictures and writing. Writing. There was so much writing to be done. Missed time; wasted time. Clothes I wasn’t allowed to wear hoarded behind a conservative wardrobe. So much to be expressed, openly, finally. 

I’m instrumentally challenged. People always say: 
“you can learn!”, 
“no, honey, believe me, I can’t”. 

Im vertically challenged. I stand a not so proud five foot four, barely. I wear a lot of heels and platforms but mostly I stomp around in old Doc Martens pretending to be dangerous or as cool as Nique or something. 

My sister describes me as left of centre, weird and loyal. 

She’s not really my sister but she may as well be.

I hate my feet, I strongly dislike most of my exterior but I’m trying to improve my eyesight or maybe I should invest in some rose coloured glasses. Or an eyepatch. Or two eyepatches, maybe that’s just a blindfold. 

I know! Glass eyes. 

I have never felt at home in my country of birth. Travelled up the east side, lived pretty far south and felt further from home than ever. Always have I lived by the ocean, never have I been fond of sand. Or water I can’t see the bottom of. Or open seas. Or shells, crabs or blue ringed octopi.

I hate the news, so much so I’m never up to speed. No news is good news, I say. But there is always news so I’m a pretty good escape artist. It’s all death and abuse and polarising opinions where common sense or basic courtesy are completely tossed out the window then stamped out the second they hit the asphalt. 

I’m a hopeless romantic but we needn’t delve below that surface, nor waltz the promonade arm in arm unless you want to. Get back to me on that one, would you?

I’ve really outdone myself in the last year or so. Blossomed or grown or transformed or something. Found myself as a woman who looks like a cute kinda boy. I’ve uncovered my lighter self. It was an excavation of sorts, the kind of challenge that looked you dead in the eye and proclaimed loudly I fucking dare you

I’ve taken timid steps that felt as though the very ground beneath me may give way and swallow me. Without so much as a hiccup. Then, I’ve leapt with courage from old precipices to land on two feet, no rolled ankles, not yet; maybe one.

Embarrassingly, I’ve interrupted myself and become lost in other people’s jungles. I’ve teetered close to faultering mouths. Peered over dissolving cliffs and occasionally tumbled into shark infested waters where I drowned for days being eaten barely alive. 

I fucked a couple people when I didn’t recognise my own reflection. 

A couple people fucked me while they had me blindfolded under the guise of friendship. More like fiendship. Feigning a friendship. Taking advantage of a broken mindset, depression, anxiety, lack of self regard. 

Regardless, I have made mistakes I am not proud of. I have hated myself more and loved myself more in the last twelve (maybe sixteen) months than ever.

I’m a cat person but I like big dogs, too. Despite my allergies, maybe in spite of my allergies. I’d pop an antihistamine daily if it meant I gained the affection from a feline companion. 

I relate to cats, you gotta earn me now. I don’t provide unconditional love, it’s all conditional but I’ll bend remarkably far if I deem it worth the bone breaking or whatever. 

I work in fashion. I breathe in literature. 

If I could have three wishes I’d wish for x, y and z. 

I think I’ve found my home, complete with a kooky, gypsy family. We’re all strange there, we all love there and we all cradle struggles gently in our arms there but when we do it together the burden seems a little less weighty. Like, it doesn’t matter so much if your hands are full because someone will always be there to open a door for you, to you, hold you and cry with you. 

I wear colour proudly now. 

I wear my naked face in public now. 

I go braless and unashamed, no Hollywood tape. Tight skirts to get the job. Tight skirts after I get the job because now I want to and I can. 

Living has taught me more than dying could though I have crawled through days that felt like death. The elusive end. The sleep I don’t wake up from. 

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t ache for that sometimes. 

But I’m no liar,

I’m made of stardust. 

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