Give It Back

Have you ever loved someone so much that even when they chip pieces away from you, you still try to give them what’s left? I know I have… I know I do.

There’s an undeniable thrill about meeting a stranger and spending a few hours together, indulging in each other’s lives. It’s that spurt of saying whatever you want and leaving it behind with someone who’ll never look at you and think of it again.

The void inside me starts to fill, but my heart has holes, and whatever it holds will run out, leaving me empty once again.

A familiar sensation sparks inside me, the one I had a few years ago, the one that hurts because it’s dangerous and overwhelming. Knowing how it is to truly love someone is torturous. You try to bury that feeling. So you become lonely, deprived, and when you sense anything remotely like it, the emotion comes back to haunt you. It’s one sick fucking game.

Many nights I watch the sun set. Many nights I watch the moon. They fascinate me. They’re the only things I get to share with everyone: the stars, the moon, the universe.

Ever since her diagnosis, she’s been fading like a light bulb with cancer’s hand on the rotary dimmer.

I hate reading poems—school made me hate them. I’d spend hours interpreting one, just to read the memorandum and realize I’d be fucked during exams. I remember making a little asterisk next to every question I struggled with, and at the end of the paper, I’d realize I was looking at the fucking Milky Way.

It’s like I’m on a roller-coaster ride, but I’m not allowed to get off. I’m strapped to the seat, and within eyesight the unfinished twirl of the track swirls into the air.

I guess we’re all guilty at some point of failing to appreciate the small things, because when we use a broad brush to paint our exemplary lives, we splatter ourselves with ignorance.

Father", that sounds too dominant, too stern or Mufasa-like – he’s a coward, a low-budget, hand-fucking coward.

Oh, I just wasted two hundred dollars on a gym membership, which I didn’t use…even once. My shorts are getting shorter. Lately I’ve been looking like a slut—unintentionally of course.

It’s as if everyone got cancer the day I was diagnosed, except I’m their tumor.

The ocean fascinates me too. How it connects everything and everyone, but at the same time it divides us. It’s a mystery, full of life and possibilities. It’s just…phenomenal.

Since her diagnoses she has been fading like a light bulb with cancer’s hand on the rotary dimmer.

It’s all about that cosy, homey feeling, the one you leave behind when you travel across the world.

As I rise from my seat, my notes almost fly to the floor. I quickly clutch them to my body before I awkwardly enter the interview room in a fucked-up-question-mark posture, walking as though I’m ten shits behind.

He might not be here, but the day he misses an opportunity to party is the day Jocelyn Wildenstein is considered the paragon of beauty.

I can hear the tick tick tick in my head: A tripwire ready to explode in fury. And then, in my mind, I start to count down from ten…any moment now.