Love Yourself

The room is dark. I look down, my tits are lit by a bluish white light coming from the laptop screen. On the screen is two more pairs of tits, bigger than mine and more tanned. Two women are bent over, unclad, on their hands and knees on a mattress in a fancy looking room with huge windows. A naked man takes turns putting himself inside one of the girls for a bit and then the other. It sounds like they’re enjoying it, but they’re probably not. They’re probably wondering if their dads or uncles or old school teachers will one day stumble across their little faces, mouth open, spunk in the eye.

I paste Nick’s face onto the thrusting man’s body, I paste my own face onto one of the girls. He is not thinking of me as a human being but a human shaped, fleshy, penis-accepting object. I am an object, I am an object, I am a fucking object and then I orgasm. Every nerve, every blood vessel, every muscle in my body contracts and expands simultaneously for 15 seconds. My eyes open, the computer screen is suddenly very bright and is hurting my eyes. The three of them are still at it. ‘Stop it, I’ve had enough now’ I say to them and click the little ‘x’ in the corner of the screen.

Should I be ashamed of myself? I don’t know, maybe, probably not. That odd sensation I sometimes get, where I feel like I could cry for a split second after it’s all over, I put it down to catholic guilt. Wanking and crying, the classic combination. It’s all I seem to do these days. I don’t feel like crying tonight though, well not urgently anyway. I put my tits away and enjoy the last little echoes of pleasure before taking a deep sigh and picking up the self-help book I was reading before I got distracted.

‘Love Yourself’ the title reads in huge red letters across the front page. ‘I think you’ll find I just did’ I wink at myself. Myself, my other self, is stood in the corner, back against the wall, reading a book too and silently rolling her eyes at me. She doesn’t find this very funny. She’s a spoil sport. ‘Whatever’ I say to her ‘…just because you didn’t think of it first’ and I open my page to where I last left off and tell myself that everything is going to be just fine because this book is going to give me all of the answers I need and I’ll never be miserable or have to wank alone again.


She threw the boxes,
In your flat,
And just left them there.

All those boxes,
All that baggage,
But she didn’t care.

Because she’s moving on.

Old mementos,
Faded photos,
They’ve sat there for years.

But she’s forgotten,
All about them,
Like she’s forgotten her tears.

Because she’s moving on.

You keep,
A single cobweb,
In the corner of the room.

To remind you,
Of the healing,
That you’ve had to do.

Because she’s moving on.


A play on words,
With contradictions.
Complete denial of,
Fact and fiction.

The puzzle’s done,
The board’s been won.
The hangman’s hung,
You’ve had your fun.
You’ve had your fun and…

Games, games, games.
All you play is,
Games, games, games.

You roll the dice,
And move one space.
Snakes and ladders,
Poker face.

Complete confusion,
Just an illusion.
Egos bruising,
I don’t like losing.
I don’t like losing…

Games, games, games.
All you play is,
Games, games, games.

Games, games, games.
All you play is,
Games, games, games.


Enough’s enough,
This has got to stop.
You might be tough,
But clearly I am not.

Enough’s not enough,
I don’t want to just be friends.
Every time we touch,
I need it again.

I’m trying to think,
I’m trying to think!
I’m trying not to think.

That’s all you are,
Just trouble.

That’s all you are,
Just trouble.

You say the only time,
You don’t feel sad,
Is when,
You’re fucking.

And I can’t figure out,
Does that makes me,
Or lucky?

Now I need it too,
Now I need it too!
Now I need you.

But you’re trouble,
That’s all you are,
Just trouble.

That’s all you are,
Just trouble.

Little Brother

I’ve always been a sucker for love, maybe I didn’t get enough of it as a kid. When I was about a year old, my little brother was born but he was born all wrong. He was in hospital for months and months attached to machines and covered in tubes, just like one of the sick little babies they show on the telly when they’re trying to raise money for the children’s hospital.

 So anyway, my dad stayed at home and looked after us three kids; my older brother, my sister and me, while my mum spent all her time at the hospital standing over his little glass box looking down at him underneath all of those wires and stuff. It was during this period that I supposedly became withdrawn.

‘You went sort of, odd’ my mum told me once ‘and you sort of stayed that way.’ She said this last bit with a laugh and a wink, but the punchline was one of those jokes that isn’t really a joke at all. These are the best kind of jokes, the most effective comedy is always based in truth, I say. It’s the kind that gets you deep, touches some part of your soul. It’s the kind that hurts at first but then makes you feel better than you did to begin with. A bit like vomiting. Yeah, the best jokes sort of make your soul vomit.

So my mum thinks I never really recovered from that period of maternal separation and I reckon it’s as good an excuse as any to pass off my neediness. I mean, it’s a lot better than it being some kind of inherent personality flaw, like narcissism or psychopathy or…general, umm, crappiness. I think ‘generalised crappiness disorder’ would be too much for my poor vomiting soul to bare, it’s much easier if I just rue the day that my little brother was ever born.

Knots Upon Knots

There’s a need to back away from you, it’s not healthy, all this. My mind finds itself entangled like a pair of headphones at the bottom of a bag. Knots upon knots, I’m wrapped in on myself, because I just can’t get my head around you, around what you’re doing, around what you feel.

There’s no such thing as sleep anymore, not really anyway. And in those fleeting moments where I do drift off, you haunt me. You’re right there in my dreams, causing me some kind of trouble. The moment I wake up I feel sick, your face rises along with the light of the new day. I check my phone and see no text from you. I want to cry and go back to sleep, but instead I only cry.

So here’s to disappearing, to fading away from view, to slipping through your fingers, to being dusted off. Because you can’t expect a person to wait forever, waiting to hear the words they fear will never come. I know it’s not your fault I ended up in this place, I just got tangled up I guess.