Category Archives: Writing

Can You Ever Stop Loving Someone After a Relationship is Over? No.

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If your love was real, you never stop loving them.

If the other person ever meant anything to you, you always will feel something for them. Even if it ended bitterly, there will be a residue of feelings. That’s just how love works.

As much as I wish my heart had an on/off switch and I could just go on with my life, ending loving feelings for someone has never been that easy. It is like a funeral “In loving memory of…..” because in the end it’s just the memories of both the good and the bad that stays long after the love is gone. Emotions are complex, when a relationship ends there is an undefined part of you that stays with that person no matter what. Perhaps because at one point in your life he/she is what makes you WHOLE.

But put quite simply, the person you loved, (still love?) doesn’t really exist anymore except inside your head and your heart. What we truly mean when we say, “I still love Him/Her” is that we love OUR MEMORY of that person and that love.

Breath

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I like smoking at parties now

My fingers are dusty with ink
from packing sentences into paragraph packing crates
so I can leave out of the front door one day;

You are telling me you’ve found a new way to kill you.

You shared a lighter with the boy
who put me out with tepid water,
who would have kept my bones as keepsakes.
His lips, your lungs,
my wings.

I have passed from breath to breath
until I was ash caught in the mercy of the wind.
I am not smoke. I fly free from his lips and your lungs.

Smoke your cigarettes.

Exercise.

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I appall the word exercise. Shouldn’t it be training? As in training for the forces of life as we get older and age?

I stopped doing run-in-place cardio because I realized how silly it is. I focus primarily on lifting and boxing now, and for the first time in six years I have abs showing! I used to be scared to lift any weights a few years ago because I thought I’d get bulky and unattractive, but this is how I see it: if guys, with infinitely more testosterone in their bodies than me, struggle to bulk and significantly put on muscle, then how should I expect to? It’s purely logic! That was my eureka moment!

Now I feel that my discipline is impregnable. And my ass looks even better from all the squatting and lunges.

So true!

So true!

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I’m a happy camper.

My Experience With Christian Dior’s Poison

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Was back in the 90’s when I was just a preteen misfit. My babysitter at the time had brought a drunken friend over who passed out on the couch to sleep off a hangover while I was on the way to school. I walked over to her inebriated skanky person and noticed she had left her purse open. I looked in to make sure she didn’t have drugs because the LAST thing I wanted is to leave to school wondering if there were drugs in the house where my brother (who was still a child at the time) might get curious and accidently ingest some.

I looked around her bag…
condom
wallet
cigarettes
very nice zippo lighter
something which I think was a pregnancy test (could have been a spermicide applicator)
keys
loose change
ripped paper with an unknown number on it
and…

a most intriguing dark purple bottle.

poison

It was fairly new, for the bottle was mostly full and I can smell its magic faintly from the sprayer. I went ahead and spritzed some in the air and was immediately wrapped in a fog of seductive complexity. It was sweet but far from “girly”, it was the scent of mystery and ambiguity…sophisticated and distinctive. I turned the bottle to view its name and realized, ironically, I had been…Poisoned. After the smoke weakened and lingered…I looked over to the passed out woman and looked back at the bottle.

It was then when I knew, I had to save this perfume from the clutches of this unworthy bimbo. So it was then, where Poison became my potion. An untypical action of mine that I felt was a necessary evil.

On my skin (then and to this day) the scent seems to repel females but attract males (or those who are Two Spirited)…which I certainly felt was an advantage. I wore it mainly for myself, because it made me feel really good and whenever I spritz it on I remember our dirty past together. It seduced me into doing something I was told not to do. But how could I resist?

It was Eve…
the apple…
and the serpent.

Christian Dior’s Fahrenheit = LOVE!

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TMI alert: I think the first time I inhaled this….MASTERPIECE of a male fragrance it induced my ovulation. Sorry for being so unashamedly expressive about it but it is the plain truth. I wasn’t sure at the time what ingredients made up this bewitching fragrance but goodness me it was a bit much for my then teenager self to take! I was all blushes and giggles when I caught a whiff of this. I felt terribly naughty and hoped I’d someday find a boyfriend who I can spray this on (and would like it).

It was masculine, sexy, versatile, reminded me of those diamond in the rough sorts that can step off a Harley-Davidson and still look good in an Armani suit. An all-around man. A do-er not a talker.

I will mention that I haven’t sniffed the latest formulation of this, therefore I cannot offer opinion. But, I will say I am happy to have known this fragrance in its heyday and it holds nothing but feel good memories for me.

Words From an Empty Building

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The key that they cut for me is lost.

There are cobwebs because my lungs are exhausted.

That floorboard is a bruise; someone kicked it too hard.

Once I had poetry etched into my brickwork.

Once two lovers loved so hard
that their rhythm was my heartbeat.
I thought I was their world, I started spinning,
but they left. First me, then each other.

Smash all my windows before you leave.
nothing is left to bleed out.

Your Mother

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Your mother remembers how she would flinch
every time she shut your bedroom door at night
because she was closing the route she had mapped out
for you to find her.
Your mother remembers buying you Christmas Eve pyjamas
which you would outgrow a day later with your swelling anticipation.
She wanted you. Even when she got you, she did not stop wanting.
Your arms, elbow to wrist as far down as the gear stick,
A constant in the blur of motorway lights.

Your mother remembers so that you will not forget.

Urban Forest

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This town smoulders
Under a dull sky.
We don’t have stars.
They got lost,
They ricochet off the graffiti garages,
Breaking shop windows
with their razor shoulders.

I think I will leave,
She says,
Four wolf whistles into
The ten minute wait for a bus.

I’m already gone,
He thinks.
Every time he tries to rise
The thud of the bass pushes him down.

We become black holes,
Skeletal and starved,
A vacuous attempt
To feed off these unyielding streets.

Too many pavements. Not enough concrete
To hold up all the lost souls.

This town lies within us
And we will burn out.

I Don’t Know What to Call This

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On this day last year, I loved you.
I loved you so much.

But I wasn’t here.

I didn’t even exist.

I’ve burnt myself to the ground so many times and sifted through the remnants and rebuilt with what I’ve found. I am the pile of limbs that sold her soul to the devil for 27 years of everything.

And still I manage to be everything I’d rather not be.

I stopped loving so many people that I don’t know who this is talking to. I don’t know who you are. Perhaps that was the problem; perhaps that is why like frost on a window we parted ways with the morning sun.

I just need someone who, when I wearily start to prise off my fingernails, will just hold me. Will tell me that I don’t need to deconstruct myself. That they’ve got me, no matter how sharp my edges are. That they’ve got me.