“I want to say things my mind has not even formulated yet. I am bursting at the seams, with wordless thoughts and a gentle fire in my chest. It’s all because of Rowan.”
“I am so hungover.
The throbbing, angry punishment in my skull for all that tasty, tasty tequila and great wastage of money, fittingly matched the growing ache in my ‘art.”
“I’m hurting myself, and I let you hurt me.
I’m sad, but I’m saddened because I wish you were right for me. I’m sad because I wish you were someone you’re not. I’m sad because I wish you’d treat me the way you can’t. I’m sad because you don’t know how to love me, but I want you to love me anyway. I’m sad because I know I can’t ever let you again. I’m sad because I’ve felt you. I’m sad because you’ve touched me. I’m sad because I’d take it all back.”
“As time went on, and as my wonderful manager, Lloyd, is not always around to overhear someone calling me beautiful and sarcastically interject with, “Oh, Iola never gets that AT ALLLL”, I’ve come up with some pretty decent approaches:
“The hot waitress is off today. Wait for her. She’ll be here tomorrow.”
“I’m not allowed to prey on my customers, sorry.”
“I’m not gay.”
If they laugh, maybe you’ll get a tip. If they don’t, well, let’s hope their table leaves soon and you get a ten-seater with rich nuns with a penchant for alcohol, but Jesus is still bae. “
“Love and Loss are holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes and laughing heartily at the wrath in their wake.”
“What inside your mind fuels such rage? Why do you want to break bones? What about physically and poisonously expressing your seething rage by means of intimidating and scarring those littler than you makes you feel better? Is it about power? Does it make you feel stronger, or like more of a man? Do you enjoy the stinging of the slapping, punching and the kicking?”
““I’m leaving for Cape Town on the 9th. Your place at 8?”
No. Nobody joined my parents and I for a steak and basmati dinner that night at 8.
This was one of the first messages I ever received on Tinder.
It was off to a great start.”
“My social life is like The Bachelorette. I often wonder if there are cameras cleverly hidden behind trees and in dark corners, live-streaming to some dingy website where my straight fans are vouching for the best-looking guy and the lesbigay community watches in excitement every time I meet the ex-ladyfriend.”
“Harshly illuminated in the darkness, I huddle in a corner before his downward gaze. I feel his compassionless stare, even through the distance.
My cheeks glisten, raw and soaked in my sorrows. Their stinging does little to distract me from his inflicted pain.
Hugging my knees to my chest, surrounded by his weapons, I fight the urge to run to him.
He is my twisted salvation.”
“He opened up his notifications expectantly.
“Lola Whiteley posted on your timeline.”
He follows the link.
We’re a mixed race couple.
It was so romantic.”