I write once in a while because I only think what I want once in a while.

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Imagine you have run a marathon, you haven't slept in 24 hours and you're one joint down and your boyfriend leaves you. Of course, it's because you fucked up. You slept with someone while traveling. That affair didn't last long, but the chats did. Your boyfriend discovers three month old chats where you are all lovey-dovey with the other guy. Boyfriend says, I could sniff romance. I don't trust you anymore. Besides, you bitched about me with him. I feel disrespected. You say of course, you have all the right to. You have all to write too. A momentous marathon, a long walk, coming to an end, a story beginning to emerge.

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She was sitting with her legs sprawled out on him.
He was writing a short story on his phone.
He didn't have an idea how to begin,
so he asked her for the first line. She said,
'Begin a story with my legs sprawled out on you.'
He did so, but he lost track of the story
and ended up writing about the story rather
than what was inside of the story.
Her sprawled out legs. She retreated her legs
and went inside. The story followed her like
a tail and smuggled under the blanket with her.
Now the story is snuggling with her,
while he's outside on the sofa, sleepless,
looking for the missing story.

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They wrote each other letters.
She died.
He continued receiving.— % &

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My 523 Story

He pronounced himself a guru.
They believed.
He minted money.— % &

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If you have to always ask yourself if you want to be in a relationship or not, the answer is don't.

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being at someone's door and not being invited in and not being asked to get lost, being a famished gatekeeper at a restaurant, being the driver of a Mercedes I would never be able to own in my lifetime.

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Now that I can't wander, only lust is left.

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Being with you is like
walking in a warzone,
each step carefully taken
lest I might knock off
a landmine, blowing my peace
into pieces. It is difficult
to be with a difficult someone,
and while I have all my sympathies
with you for being raised
in a fractured home plastered with
violence — of words, whys and walls,
I don't think I can love someone
when they are healing,
when they are yet to learn
how to love themselves.

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