Cheeseburgers.

It’s working. The gym, I mean. The legs are more shapely, the shoulders – rounder and harder and the muscles are sore.

How do you know that?

That the muscles are sore? You can see it in your walking and the way you move your arms. You have trouble reaching and turning. I can tell that your abs don’t allow smooth movement.

OK then.

I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I just wanted to let you know that the changes are noticeable.

Thanks.

[Silence]

Are you offended?

I’m creeped out. I didn’t ask for your comment on my body and I don’t know how you know I go to the gym, or have seen me enough to say that you see a change in my body. How is that not creepy?

I’m sorry. I just wanted to give you a compliment. I see you go to the gym most days because I just work over there.

[Silence]

Is that not OK?

Why would you think I would want your comment?

Everybody likes to feel beautiful.

I don’t need your comment to feel beautiful. In fact, your comment makes me feel unsafe and uncomfortable.

Jesus Christ, I wasn’t saying you needed it. Why can’t you take a compliment? Why can’t I just give you a compliment? Is that a crime?

[Silence]

It’s not a compliment.

What?

You didn’t give me that assessment for my benefit. You gave me that assessment as if your perception and approval of the shape of my body might make me interested in you.

What the fuck? Are you a fucking feminazi? I was paying you a compliment for fucks sake.

Clearly, by this display you weren’t giving me a compliment with no strings attached – you want me to be thankful for it – you want me to pay for it. That’s not a gift. You’re not a nice guy.

And you’re a fucking bitch.

Ok. Seeya. By the way, the cheeseburgers are working.

Don’t read this.

I’ve written this part over and over baby. I’ve written it to you on paper, in an email, in a text message. I’ve written and deleted. I’ve almost pressed send. I’ve almost posted. Every time I get to the bottom, to the end, where I’m supposed to wrap this whole thing up, I wonder what happens when you read it. I know that the words won’t matter. You’re not ready yet, you said that. You told me you wouldn’t rush it. I don’t know whether you’re playing me or you’re telling the truth when you say you miss me. Rush what? Ready for what?

When I imagine you getting to “I love you”, I see you sigh, take a short, sharp intake of breath and feel your heart beat a little faster. But I know that your pulse will resume it’s steady pace and you’ll go back to her and you’ll stuff that little message in a shoe box or an archive or you’ll toss it away. My missing you is stuffed in a shoe box too. It taps away like The Tell Tale Heart when I want it to be silent.

It’s fucking loud. It’s loud when I’m underneath a new lover and he or she doesn’t kiss me like you did. It’s loud when I wonder what you’re doing all day, wishing for the text message rally we’d have about everything and nothing. It’s loud when the pain in my knee reminds me that I should really get a massage or do the exercises you suggested. It’s loud when I see a man who looks annoyingly like you walking down the street, hand in hand with a long legged lovely just like yours. It’s so fucking loud.

I don’t see how you’re still in my thoughts now, having seen you happy with your girl who I can no longer refer to as “new” for the past…what is it? Two years now? Congratulations by the way. I would think you must be happy, but you’ve told me otherwise. I don’t understand. I really don’t. You told me not to wait – but what other option do I have when you dangle a carrot like that? I’m a sucker for hope and romance and you just offered me both.

I’ve spent a long time trying to rationalize why I love you. I’ve been with people since you that look great for me on paper but don’t fit me just the way you did, despite both our rough edges that jostled often. I told myself I shouldn’t love you – I listed your faults and your failings and I listed why I wasn’t the best match for you in return. I read them over and over and I added to the list and told my friends why the present was for the best. But this list is bullshit: love isn’t logical.

I don’t care about the extremely polarized views we have on almost every topic. I care most about how you cared for me and you made me feel beautiful and intelligent and I wanted the best for you. You’re so beautiful. You have no idea how beautiful you are. I don’t think I’ve ever told you how beautiful I think you are. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you’d believe me. Would you believe me if I told you today?

Most days I tell myself that it’s better that you don’t see me now. It’s better that you don’t come back to me – I’m not the girl I was before. After everything that’s happened, I still don’t think I’m good enough for you. I still believe you only wanted me for my body. That body no longer exists. You chose to leave when my body was better – what hope is there now?

So this is where it ends, baby, you’ve read it all now. I’ve said it all and I pressed send. Just one last thing: I love you. I hope you don’t read this. If you do, put it in a shoe box and lock it away.

Artful touch

Normal days are Van Gogh starry eyes
A body made of Caravaggio chiaroscuro
but when you touched my shoulders
the skin under your hands came alive
like a Pollock painting
all excitement, movement, expression

You said I was soft, unlike your hands
and the juxtaposition embarrassed you
but my heart beat faster in the moment
and I was grateful for your fingertips
and the warmth of your rough palms

I wanted to keep them there, on my bare skin
I imagined them moving, covering me in gold leaf
bending my neck, for a kiss like Klimt
I wondered what other parts of your skin would feel like
your chest; in relation to mine

You made me feel beautiful just with your hands
as if you were admiring a masterpiece
that you had created

Turn around, blue eyes.

I have a recurring dream about you. It’s not quite a nightmare. I want so badly to talk to you about it, to understand it with you, to show you how much I’m hurting. But you’re not there anymore.

You and I are sitting in a laundromat, at midnight, pretending we don’t know each other. It’s dark outside and warm. The fluorescent lights are unforgiving. Here we are, legs apart, facing one another, pretending that we don’t know what each other looks like when we fuck and when we cum. Pretending that we don’t know what each other looks like when we cry. Pretending you never consoled me all night long when you told me it wouldn’t work out. Forgetting the wet cheeks you had when I cried into your chest for hours over how much it hurt that you didn’t want me. Pretending that we didn’t see a little bit of each other that no-one else had before.

What we’re doing in the laundromat is a mystery to me. You’re dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt and I can’t for the life of me consider you looking anymore attractive than you do at this moment. I want so badly to kiss you and run my fingers through your ginger hair, just like I used to do. Just like you used to let me do.

You leave shortly after you tell me “goodbye”. It’s your first and only word. I swallow hard and watch you walk out the door. I’m torn between barricading myself against the frame to stop you from leaving and just watching you go. I muster the courage to call your name only when the door shuts behind you. When I reach it, it doesn’t open. I pound my fists on the glass and scream for you to turn around, but you walk into the darkness with no thought of what you’ve left behind.

“Why wasn’t I enough?” I yell, over and over. You don’t turn. You don’t ever turn.

Same.

There was a condom wrapper right there on the floor. As I knelt beside the bed, ready to take you in my mouth, I noticed it by my knee. I imagined what had played out between you and this other girl. When, how, which way, had she made noise? Did she put her mouth on you like I am doing right now? Was it hot and wet and slow? DId she know how you like it? Did you let her look you in the eye while she had her lips wrapped around you?

Did her back arch when you pressed into her, did you kiss her between the shoulder blades with such affection too? Did you grab her hair like you do mine and pull her into your kiss? Did you smell her with such fervour and did you stroke her face lovingly afterwards? Did you roll her over and place your arm around her belly and hold her close while you both drifted away?

Did you laugh and moan, did you have a great time? Was it greater than this? Do you withhold affection from her too? Or can you give it all to her? (Don’t) tell me. I (don’t) want to know.

This is a story I’m reading – I don’t know the ending, but I occupy the spaces on the pages. I visit the locations where the characters frequent.There are shadows and sometimes physical evidence of the scenes that I’m not invited into. I guess it’s the same for her.

Happiness.

When I was younger and people asked “What do you want to be when you grow up?”, I’d always answer “happy”. It didn’t matter to me what I did in life as long as I was happy doing it.

This was problematic, of course. I didn’t know what happiness looked like. How could I work towards achieving something I had no tangible concept of? If I didn’t know what it looked like, how would I know if I’d won it?

A bit of context: I’m 27. I’m currently seeking treatment, in the form of medication and psychologist support, for my second bout of clinical depression. This time with more than a touch of anxiety. It’s a fun little cocktail of bullshit.

If my goal in life has always been “to be happy”, then apparently, I’ve not achieved that yet.

What have I been doing wrong so far? Some shitty things have happened in my life, certainly. Cancer, suicide, lost love, a family infidelity, sexual assault. Realistically I know anyone who experiences these things could be forgiven for struggling with happiness. I don’t believe my illness is purely situational but I think a reasonable response to these issues is sadness or anger, for anyone.

But, maybe my idea of happiness – because I must have some idea of what it is – is fundamentally flawed? Maybe my idea of happiness is causing me unhappiness?

When answering the question “what do you want to be when you grow up?” with “happy”, the next question from more insightful people was always “yes, but what does that look like?”. I could never answer. Sometimes I would say “I’ll be successful in whatever I do, I’ll have a fulfilling relationship”.

Those things are subjective too. What does success look like in whatever I do? Is that when people praise my work? In the eyes of others I am successful and therefore I am? What does a fulfilling relationship look like? Is it one that brings me happiness? That’s a pretty dangerous circular idea.

Quantifying happiness is a step that I’ve always found too complicated to attempt. I guess that’s why I haven’t gotten close to grasping it.

I wondered if others felt that they could call themselves happy. Over the past year or so I’ve asked the question of people I come into contact everyday: the bookshop attendant, the barista, family members, my best friends, acquaintances, workmates, a stranger on the street. It’s a pretty bizarre question to ask but mostly people have been very open about their answers. I’ve felt honoured that these people have shared their ideas about happiness with me.

Some people said they weren’t happy – categorically so. They hadn’t had a lot of luck in life. Some said “mostly”. One man scrunched up his face and said that he didn’t think that the question was fair: it didn’t mean anything. I asked him why and he told me that happiness was just an emotion and not a lasting state. I was framing the question as if the emotion could be applied to his entire world.

I thought on this and I agreed. Happiness is just a collection of pleasant emotions, yes. But I also think it’s a perspective. Perspectives can be lasting – they just have to be consistently applied.

Like most other people, I’ve been spoon fed the idea that “happily ever after” really was happily ever after. I’ve been searching for a Fairy Tale Ending. We don’t get Endings – we’re in a constant state of change until we die.

Sleep.

I fall asleep with the music on these days. The soft melodies attempt to chase away the loneliness that creeps into bed instead of you. The steady drum beat – 1-2-3-4-1-2-3-4 replaces the emptiness where another heartbeat should be. I can’t sleep with silence.

I told you I’m not wounded. I wasn’t lying, in a way. There existed a gap inside that you filled and now it’s empty again.

When the music rocks me to sleep, I dream a romance I’m not sure exists or ever will.

Bodies like waves
Satin clings:
Electric arcs between skin,
Static lightning in the dark,
Highlighting collar bones;
And hips;
And navel

Dry lips on glistening breast
Fingertips kissed
One by one
Softness in urgency
Only in dreams
Always in dreams

I’ll be dreaming now
Don’t wake me

Kintsukuroi

Look, I love you kid. You don’t think it’s possible but it’s true.

You think you’re broken beyond repair don’t you? I know you look at the scars on your thighs, your wrists, your arms and know they aren’t going anywhere. On show for everyone to make of them what they will. What about this then?

Here, let me kiss them. Let me cover you in gold leaf; press the crinkles into those wrinkles and into those scars. All your lines covered in sparkling dust. You’ll glimmer where you’ve aged the most, where you’ve broken open and been put back together.

Just like the Japanese do with Kintsukuroi, I’ll wrap those cracks, not to hide them but to console them. To warm them. To embellish. It’ll be an aspect of your history then, how you came to be part gold.

Would you be as precious without these flaws filled with gold? Of course, the preciousness exists already and the gold only highlights for you to better see. Look around you, kid. These people have cracks that you can’t see. If only gold filled them up too. Would you ask about them if they were?

You’re an adventure, kid. Don’t you love adventure? I do. I’ve always loved adventure. People seek out adventure. It makes them feel alive.