#anyway. me using the slightest little connection to share poetry

[divorcedwife]

i generally dislike gortash's stupid coat (and you can probably tell from the fact that i removed a lot of details every time i've drawn him lol) but i do like the stupid little masks because they make me think of greek tragedies and the opening lines of cors de chasse by apollinaire (english, scroll down a bit) which is one of the most beautiful poems of all time in my opinion

[jaegeraether]

Sunsets and footballers (Part 42)

Alexia Putellas x Character (9)

Masterlist (other parts here)

((**Mentions of Lucy/YFN.* *What happens when two dominant people start falling for each other? This... :')* *I think this is my favourite chapter so far...**))

Alexia had her arms crossed over her body as she watched Lucy and her girlfriend through the glass at the airport. Lucy was the type of person to be so brutal on the field, so dedicated in her work, and so unapologetically independent. There were occasions where she was excited enough for physical contact with people, though they were rare, because that was the soft side of her that you only see if you truly knew her well. Even then, she hid it extremely well, even when she was with Keira.

Not now though. Alexia watched Lucy and YFN move like there was a cord connected between them, their movements naturally synced and complementing each other. And then there were the looks, the longing, the love, the hopeless expressions that were exchanged with smiles and blushes, many of which were one staring without the other noticing. It made Alexia feel a lot of things to see them like this. To see Lucy be so happy, so touchy, so in love. It now made sense to her why Lucy was always lost in a daydream since she’d returned from the last international break. Because she was always thinking about her; because this was one of those things you only see in movies or read about in poetry.

“They are cute, no?”

Alexia flinched at the voice which was a lot closer than she expected. She turned to Ridley who was leant against her car, hands clasped casually behind her back as she studied Alexia’s face. Her famous all-too-neutral expression usually helped her disguise her emotions, yet she felt Ridley could see right through it. And she could. Just the slightest hint of downturned eyebrows, her mouth set a little too hard, and the biggest giveaway, her eyes. Alexia’s eyes were like an open book for her, betraying her deepest feelings, and right now she could see…longing.

“I guess.”

“I prefer absolutes.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow, her face otherwise staying the same. “Is there a way to absolutely tell if tonight is going to be awkward between the two of us?”

Ridley smiled and Alexia watched the scar on her cheek shift with the movement of her face. “Awkward is fun, no?” She pushed off from the car and opened the door, gesturing Alexia in as if she were a chauffeur. “La Reina.”

Alexia looked at the fact that she’d opened the rear car door, and not the front. She was unsure if Ridley expected her to call her bluff, but she did anyways. She slid into the back seat as if she were an actual Queen, and Ridley an actual chauffeur. Bluff called. Alexia watched a smile creep over her face at her unexpected cheekiness as she closed the door. Alexia 1, Ridley 0.

“Ridley! It’s been too long! How are you?” The restaurant owner was gushing over the couple as they came in. “And I see your taste in women is impeccable, how lucky we are for you to bring the la Reina to our little restaurant.”

Ridley shared a grin and a polite half-hug with him. Did she know everyone? “Emiliano, I hope your family are well. Yes, I’ve been busy. I took a few contracts in Dubai recently so I’ve been gone for most of the year there.”

Alexia’s interest peaked at that. That’s where she’d been?

“My daughter wants to do that one day too. She’s so excited! Won’t shut up about it. Oh well, I’m glad you’re back. You look beautiful, as do you, Miss Putellas. As luck would have it, I have your favourite table free! Follow me.”

Usually Alexia was the centre of attention. The one who lead the way and had to do all of the talking and pleasantries. Here with Ridley she felt the opposite and it was…incredibly refreshing. Alexia followed closely behind Ridley, studying her back as she walked with such confidence. They reached her ‘favourite table’ which sported a stunning view of the city, but also retained a little privacy from half of the restaurant. In addition to that, she couldn’t help but realise how humble Emiliano had been when he’d said ‘little restaurant’. It looked and felt Michelin Star. Emiliano shared a gesture with Ridley that she didn’t see, and he stepped back as Ridley took his place to push Alexia’s chair in behind her. Another new fact about Ridley she’d just learnt. Chivalry. Alexia 1 – Ridley 1.

Ridley sat opposite her and pulled her own seat in. Alexia watched the two exchange a few more pleasantries and small talk before he gave them the chef specials and recommendations and left with a smile. The restaurant was so nice that the menus didn’t have prices. Cost was never a factor for Alexia anymore, though she felt like it helped her get to know the woman opposite her a little more. Gone were the days of the mysterious woman from the bar. Or so she thought.

They weren’t speaking, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, Alexia felt very comfortable, even with the astonishingly distracting tension between the two. If Ridley felt it, she hid it well. Alexia stared at the menu, not really seeing the words until two fingers gripped the top of her menu and gently lowered it so she could see her eyes.

“Are you going to hide behind your menu all night?”

“I was considering it.” She murmured, embarrassed she’d just been called out. Usually Alexia was the cool, calm person in control.

“And deprive me of those eyes?”

There’s that cheeky audacity. She made it worse by keeping that eye contact, making Alexia feel seen. And surprisingly safe also.

Alexia thought it best to not encourage her. “Any suggestions?”

“The salmon. I dreamt about it for days after.”

Everything sounded so flirty from her mouth. Perhaps it was.

“Okay.” She said and put her menu down as if to show she was done hiding. “And for you?”

Ridley hadn’t even opened her menu.

“Emiliano suggested the sirloin. Are you okay with wine during your season?”

“Si.”

Ridley raised her hand without her elbow leaving the table, and a server appeared, as if she’d been watching. Ridley handed her both menus and ordered for both of them with a wine pairing. Alexia noticed the girl staring at Ridley as if she was in love with her, or as if they’d had sex. After a few more seconds, she would have put money on it being the latter. Her emotions were poorly covered with longing looks and presumably old memories. Ridley’s expression, however, didn’t change. It was neutral, polite, unbothered. Usually in a situation like this, the person would be extra cold, or awkward, or making it obvious that it had meant nothing to them. Ridley did none of those things because she actually cared. Alexia had noticed that about her. She was so aware of people’s feelings, her intelligence shining through and although she had a perfectly composed self, that deep part of her could be brought out. She’d seen it in the worry in her eyes last night. She’d seen it in her amused expression in the rear-view as she and YFN had their little back and forth in the car. She’d seen it in the melancholy look that appeared for a split second when Alexia had said she was going to spend Christmas with her family.

When the server was gone, Ridley’s attention turned back to her date and just when Alexia thought she’d say something teasing, she did the opposite.

“I apologise for last night, Alexia. I…mishandled the entire situation. I won’t give you any excuses. Simply, you deserved better.”

It was short and eloquent. Not riddled with personal wants and needs and reasons and excuses. Just a genuine apology. Unfortunately, that made Ridley even more attractive to her than she already was.

“I accept your apology. Thank you for saying that.”

She wondered if that was it. If that was all Ridley wanted from their dinner tonight. She really just wanted to get to know her better, and she didn’t know why.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“Sure, I’ll try my best to answer it.”

Alexia hesitated, which she rarely did. “In the car when you asked me about Christmas, you seemed upset. Why?”

Ridley stared into her eyes as if she were wondering how honest she should be. “Because I don’t have a family. I have YFN and her nan and her brother, but we’re not biologically related.”

No family? “Why..?”

“It would dampen the mood of tonight.”

“I want to know. Besides, what do you expect from tonight?”

“I expect to have dinner with you and apologise. I’d say we’re off to a great start.”

“Ridley-”

Ridley’s eyes flashed something unknown. It was the first time she’d heard her name from Alexia’s lips.

“I’m much more than my past.”

Alexia knew that, of course, but could also tell it was Ridley’s way of asking her to stop. So she did.

“I know you are.”

Before Ridley could respond, the server was back with the wine. She held it up for Ridley to look at and she tasted it like a wine connoisseur before she accepted it. Alexia noticed the server intentionally brushing Ridley’s fingers with her own, hoping for a reaction. Most people would have reacted to the touch, but Ridley remained indifferent and polite.

“I have another question.”

“By all means.”

One of the benefits of them both having dominant personalities was their ability to be straight to the point and honest.

“What do you want from me?”

Ridley took a sip while she thought. “In general or tonight?”

“Both.”

“Tonight I wanted to apologise and make sure you have a nice meal after your game. In general, I’m not entirely sure.”

She was unsure what she wanted from her?

“Last night you said a few things I’d like clarification on.”

Ridley gave her a look that said she already knew what those things were. “I’ll do my best.”

“Four questions. Firstly, you said that you ‘come here to see’ me?”

“To the bar, yes. Exactly how you go just to see me.”

It wasn’t cockiness, it was an observant fact. She knew she was going just for her? Alexia felt herself getting shy. She was rarely shy. She pushed that aside.

“That’s fair,” she murmured. “You also said ‘I don’t think of you like that’.”

“I don’t. You’re much more than a body to me.”

“What am I?” It wasn’t one of her questions but she couldn’t help but whisper it.

Ridley frowned. “I’m not sure yet.”

“Is that why you ‘don’t know how to give me anything else’?”

“I don’t date, Alexia.”

“And you just assume that I do?”

“Do you not?”

She frowned. She did. “You didn’t give me a choice.”

“There was no choice to offer. We didn’t know each other. We still don’t.”

“We could have changed that if you hadn’t left.”

Those words hung in the air between them. Ridley had left, and she knew it would have hurt her, but she assumed it would hurt her less than actually getting to know her for who she was. Ridley didn’t open up to people. Better to leave than break her heart.

The server arrived again during their silence, and placed their food in front of them, giving an extra sweet smile to Ridley. She pretended not to see it, her eyes on Alexia.

“I’m excited for you to try that, the chef is incredible.” Ridley’s eyes flickered to Alexia’s dish while Alexia continued to stare at her.

“Why did you leave?”

She sighed and caught Alexia’s eye again.

“Because I’m not good for you.”

“Why?”

“Trust me, Alexia. I’m not good for anybody.”

“You’re good enough for the women you fuck.” Alexia’s jealousy hit like a slap in the face. Usually people enjoy seeing their partners jealous for them. Ridley, however, didn’t want to see Alexia upset in any way.

“They mean nothing to me.”

Questions swam in Alexia’s eyes. “Were you trying to push me away…?”

That surprised her. Alexia’s jealousy hadn’t hindered her confidence. She knew her worth. It was an alarmingly attractive quality for Ridley. “Yes.”

Alexia was grateful for the fact that Ridley didn’t lie. She’d answer honestly or not at all. “Why?”

“I told you why.”

“You never gave me a chance…”

Again, those words hung in the air and the heartbreak on Alexia’s face almost broke her. Ridley had never felt like that before. She never let herself get close enough to. “I’m not good for you..” she repeated as if she hadn’t understood the first time. It was a weak argument.

“And you’ve just made that decision for me then? I don’t get to decide what is and isn’t good for me? What I do and don’t want?” Alexia was a softy at heart and although she was fierce with her words, unfallen tears were building up in her eyes. “You may be used to being in control and telling people what to do, but you don’t get to do that with me. Not right now.”

It was like two dominant animals butting heads. Both knew their worth, and Ridley had absolutely done the wrong thing by shutting Alexia out. Though she’d told herself she hadn’t owed her anything, she knew she did from that very first moment they’d locked eyes in the bar almost a year ago. Everything she’d done from then had been for her, and without her having a say in the matter. She hadn’t realised how selfish she’d been. She’d convinced herself she was doing the right thing by her and her feelings, without considering her actual feelings, because Alexia had been just as involved as she was. She’d underestimated that.

“You’re right.”

Alexia was also surprised at how easy she’d admitted that. She opened her mouth to reply and was cut off.

“Eat your food before it’s cold. Then we’ll talk.”

That was a good example of the type of control Alexia could accept from her. But not her avidly taking away her choices regarding her emotions.

The salmon was incredible, and she told her just as much. Ridley was happy at that. The wine pairing went down perfectly with their food and soon enough, the plates were replaced with the dessert menu.

“I can’t…” Alexia started to say before she was distracted reading the menu.

“We can share.”

Their eyes met, both happy at the compromise. Alexia smiled and Ridley’s heart almost stopped at that. She was stunning. She didn’t know if she could tear her eyes from her lips, but luckily she was torn away by the server again.

“What can I get for you two?”

“We’re sharing.” She said, clapping her menu closed and handing it over, looking at the Barcelona Captain. “It’s your choice.”

The server looked a little upset by that, and almost unwillingly turned her attention to Alexia.

“The crema catalana, please.”

She gave her menu to the server who nodded and left. Only then did she see the grin on Ridley’s face, and couldn’t help her face reflecting it.

“What?”

“That’s my favourite. Anything with custard, or similar to it.”

It was another rare fact that Ridley happily shared with her. She made a mental note of it.

“Can we continue?”

“If you’d like.”

“I would.” Alexia was suddenly a little shy again. “You admit that I’m right?”

“Yes.”

“Care the expand on that?”

“It was…selfish of me to make decisions for you. I convinced myself it was what was best for you.”

“And if you hadn’t thought it was what was best for me?”

“I’d have fucked you many, many times, in many different ways by now.”

The comment was crass, but her expression wasn’t. She meant it.

“You don’t date…” She repeated from Ridley’s earlier statement.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Many reasons.”

“Such as?”

Ridley sighed. She obviously wasn’t going to let it go. “I’m…broken. I can’t love.  I discovered that when I was younger and made the mistake of being with people who I knew would fall for me and breaking their hearts. I didn’t want to do that to you.”

“You’ve never loved anyone?”

Ridley’s melancholy flashed across her face briefly. “I love YFN. I loved my brother.”

Loved. Alexia didn’t even have to ask the question.

“He’s dead.”

“And your family?”

Her jaw flexed. “The same.”

Alexia’s heart dropped. No wonder she’d looked so sad when Alexia had said she was spending Christmas with her family. She thought that ‘I don’t have a family’ meant they’d chosen to not recognise her for her sexuality or didn’t get along. She never assumed they were gone.

“I’m so-”

“Please don’t. I don’t want pity. It happened. It’s done.”

She left it for a minute before she whispered the next question. “Is that why you think you’re broken?”

“Alexia, I don’t want to talk about my past, or my faults tonight, please. I just want to have dinner with you.”

Her heart softened up at that admission. “We can do that…”

“Good.”

The crema catalana arrived then, with two spoons. Ridley picked hers up and noticed Alexia hadn’t taken hers. She was lost in thought. She took a breath and reached out, her fingers lightly touching one of Alexia’s hands on the table. That broke her thought as her eyes snapped up to meet Ridley’s.

“I’ll allow you one more question before we eat.”

It took her a few seconds to decide on which question to ask, Ridley’s fingertips warm and soft and distracting.

“Why did you leave?” She whispered.

“Because I was scared I would let you in if I stayed.”

Alexia inhaled sharply, blinking tears away. She wasn’t crazy. They did have a strong connection. And Ridley had just admitted that, unashamedly. Alexia knew how hard that must have been for her.

“Now eat, la Reina.”

The two ate dessert, unable to stop their satisfied hums as they did so, because it tasted incredible. Alexia made a note of the restaurant. She wanted to come back and bring her entire family and friends. As she thought that, the idea of Ridley being alone in the restaurant tugged at her heartstrings. Of course she’d never be alone. She’d be with a girl or a colleague, but that didn’t stop the fact that she’d be alone and would feel like it. Because no one can fill that empty space of family.

They finished quickly, Ridley paying for the meal before Alexia had a chance to argue. They said their goodbyes to Emiliano and this time when they reached the car, Ridley held the passenger door open for her.

Alexia’s grandmother’s house wasn’t far from the restaurant, and the drive was a comfortable, safe silence with Spanish music playing in the background softly. They’d both asked enough questions for the night.

As they arrive out the front, Ridley opened her door for her, and took her overnight duffle out, walking her up to the front door. The porch light was a dull yellow which made the gold flecks in Ridley’s eyes stand out even brighter. They shared a wordless smile until the sound of laughing filtered out through one of the front windows, and Ridley’s smile faltered a little. Alexia wanted to hug her, to kiss her, to invite her into her welcoming family and make her feel loved. All of that would have been too much though and besides, Ridley escaped before she had a chance to do anything.

She leant down and her lips brushed her cheek in a soft kiss. Alexia leant into her, and they stood like that for a little before Ridley was gone without a look back.

[elizasepistolarytravels]

A knife.

1.) I've never cried once when I waxed my legs. 

I can feel it though. 

as I can feel the breeze and the cold

and the salt evaporating from 

the sand caked beach. 

And its taste on scrambled eggs,

and your rain coat on the peg, 

and your stolen eyes 

stealing my body 

as the door screeches 

shut 

in that scream that I dread. 

And I can hear the sound of pop corn, 

and people in the street, 

their red mouths like 

poppies 

and bulls eyes

in a Rolling Stone magazine. 

Telling lies.

And yeah, I like my coffee black. 

S'how I decided to like it 

as I have once in a party 

sworn 

that I was born 

with my tongue flipped backwards,

my taste buds starting at the bitter bit instead.

Said that just to excite them. 

I love movies. 

But never cry in public. 

I'd never cry if it pleased the Republic. 

What I do is, I try to get a grip of their minds

See my vision through a 

screen.

But lets not get too dark, shall we?

I love the sight of wool-

Transformed and processed,

refined, 

Blessed. 

And how it scratches on my back, 

sharply.

And how it goes around and itches my neck, 

hungrily. 

And wraps around my waist and burns me. 

But that is how I choose to dress. 

And yeah I love the feel of rain and stuff,  

and cycling, 

and laughing, 

and falling, and scrambling 

and crying,and crying. 

And the crisp sheets on my childhood bed,

how when you got lost in them by yourself, tearing the sheets apart. 

I felt nothing. 

Not the wool, nor the the coffee, not even the leg waxing. 

As you saw, as you watched my eyes go forever red.

2.) 

The scent of her bluebell

earrings made them mad. 

She swayed a halo of hair at their 

bluebird eyelashes that wished to fly away 

and perch on her shoulders, 

adoring her teacups of cracked silence and 

dry toast. 

The love she held to them was bitter, 

conscious of her power, 

she did not let them see through 

her skin. 

Lotus palms higher chakra fingernails 

on her parchment thighs and a longing of 

consumption of trimmed misery, 

a pattern of stolen space shared in corners. 

They were all so beautiful. 

Their souls were white, I tell you. 

And one by one, she would let them into her room

and thank their lives.

Kissing their shoulders with 

whiskers of leaves. 

They would try to run their hands over 

sudden quivering glimpses of lake blue stillness,

that shattered across her eyes. 

They were making it worse for themselves, 

They were making her remind herself of 

the numbing stitches that lay as maps over her brain. 

2.)

How is it for you, 

as you sit pink eyed? 

Your skin, un-stretched 

from hurtling warship storms

shines golden, 

awesome disney penny golden,

slightly akin to our 

Kath Kidston bread rolls and hours of 

spiky cricket. 

It is easy to fall in love 

with your idea of an anxious 

death of new-boy, 

oxford- sandle- schoolboy. 

Beatings. 

I relish in your fire. 

In your even slightest oxygenation and combustion rust.

When clippings fall off your Thatcher-esque milk-carton teeth. 

But that barely satisfies pits of knotted words. 

And jaws pulled open to emplace chastity belts. 

Onions, 

Wikka crosses. 

Suffocation. 

My body is a battlefield of eyes, 

rashes, scratches, and many many apparent scars. 

I try to walk across your face, 

down expensive liquor suns. 

My life was an orphan. My hands

were open and a ghost took them.

Now I can only scream. 

Your sight makes me cry and you continue to shine,

And you sit down in the sand and - ‘help me’. 

This is snow globe ancient.

It is swoons of acid sooty waves, storms and storms 

of the shipwreck cleaner - the orphan. 

You explain to me life as if it were a mere 

plastic 

globe. 

Eccentric.

Disposable. 

And most probably Toxic. 

One of the reasons I am doing this project is because of trauma. 

Poetry is so wishy-washy and ambiguous so lets get straight to the point. 

Not many people detect this, some may sense pain and things like that, but on the whole, out of all the things this project has turned out to have a connection to, the trauma that also spurs it is not something not talked about a lot. It has paced my life, as good old trauma tends to do. It paces this piece of art. As so, it turns out that this is also an attempt to heal. I am taking courage, taking hold over my life now. I will write and speak and run until I don’t need to, until I feel at last at home in my own crawling skin. I will run to where I feel most protected, where I have felt I can breath at last, the warmth of the earth and the quietness of the fields of Nature. Where I feel I am of the same mud as the rest of this earth. 

Trauma. As it is for many others, trauma is insidious. It is a natural, scientific, real, proven, (blah blah look up the research) whatever you want to call it, phenomenon. It changes your brain. It is when something or someone through your childhood development and right into your adult life, comes in and disrupts the healthy boundaries of your body, your mind and your sense of self. When you are ok, you have a normal bubble where a healthy ego may develop and later on in life, thrive. When not your bubble is more this weird mashed potato. Or many different states of mashed potato. When you have not experienced trauma you know the boundaries of yourself and others and more importantly you know how to maintain them. My bubble, both physically and mentally, was distorted (made mash potato), from an early age. It was not for me one event, it was also a, combination of people and moments. The lines are blurry, and yes, I agree, the line of victim and perpetrator is difficult, and sometimes confusing, there there remains a constant. From an early age my boundaries were laughed at made lesser than, later used and twisted. It is the plight of the perception of women or anyone made lesser, their bodies made objects. Just to repeat: My existence, as for most of us, is a lot of pain. It is at times unbearable. You cannot demean this, or make this any smaller than the immensity I feel in my mind at some points of time. I guess this is speaking truth to survive. So back to the little talk on trauma. The healthy development I was meant to have by now is supplemented by the voices of those who opened me up and ate me raw. Psychologically, it is self-doubt and even hatred, somatically, it is sometimes a bodily fear of others or not knowing boundaries, exuding too much closeness and intimate energy and then at times freezing up out fear when my body suddenly realises the danger it put itself in. Or just fading away, giving in, not feeling. It is also crying and panic, yeah that happens. I can’t imagine what it must be like for people with trauma greater than mine, but this is not the point. I am here to talk about my trauma. Because it is time to take back what people took from me like chocolates, when truthfully, if he really cared for and respected me, he wouldn’t have ever fucking done that. There is no way to reconcile that in my mind. I have tried utter, truthful and surrendering forgiveness, but you know what that just didn’t work for me. So here is my story.

I met an old friend the other day, I didn’t expect him to be there, or ever see him again, although paradoxically I knew we would cross paths. This past month has been a month of giving for me, of building up projects like this one. I fucking stamped out the voices that were being stupid and managed to do the things I needed to do. I have had a precious time, I have met wondrous people. If you recognise yourself here, well done! I love you. I have made some true connections and touched others’ lives because I reached out in my truth, and so did hey. Spoke from the soul. It is something that I am proud of, my present life has taken a turn I really like. I am now again fighting for something that is outside of me, but in the process makes us laugh, connect, and feel at home. I am a fucking warrior. I did what I promised to myself, I fucking fought and got out of my hole of self pity, and I was happy for a while. But the golden light passes, as all will pass, and already, as a woman, I feel the end of the cycle coming, a time for darker thoughts needing to be processed. But also, this time was also powered by unsustainable energy, of escapism by excessively giving, and as I realised on the only day I was really sober, that parts of it were numbing. Some of you picked up on that, because after a while you see the cracks in my self, you see that something is wrong, does not quite align, you don’t know what it is, can’t put your finger on it, but something is very off. And that is when usually I ward you off or distract you with part of a persona I create. Frantically. No, I am not always OK. As many of us are. 

A person of my family, a close friend of mine, grew to take me and what I am  made me separate and lesser, a thing he could use. Anyway, starting off as a weird symbiosis of children it turned into an entitlement to the body of women,  because I don’t know, like our sick culture of disgusting posh all boys boarding schools? Just saying. And because of his parents and the rest of the family gradually built him up to think of himself as the best. That can hurt and damage a person forever. What does all that pride give you, when you are a hollow empty narcissistic vessel by night? Just saying. Anyway, that is my trauma, or whatever, or was my thing, I can make it public because I want to, and because I like the idea of revenge, and because you do not overstep my boundaries. This piece of writing is a knife.

When I met you again, dear friend, you reminded me of this. And yes, the beautiful, and real parts of this project, are a part of it, but they are not everything. The need to reconnect with people of my life is because I have presented a frantic, scared, fractured persona a lot of the time. I have manipulated and quickly attached myself to a few people, a few best friends that would fill up my broken terrified heart. I have a string of best friends, relationships, that I become intensely entwined with to feel safe, out of pure need to survive. And then cut them off without the batting of an eyelid. That is fucking terrible. I don’t know how you could stand me for the time you did. I was a manipulative piece of shit, that could probably not respect your boundaries also. And if you took distance, that was very wise of you, I thank you for that, because the pieces of me that can still feel want you to be happy. I would cut off my friends as soon as they saw this. Next. It was all just survival. I would then hunt for my next prey and hope they would fill in this hole by using them in a weird symbiotic way as a part of me. The letter writing is also to not hide anymore, to get back in contact with you, to say sorry, but also, to truly talk to you and laugh about our past, to feel kindred spirits in this world that is tough. Because this state of frenzy has to stop. This fear has to stop. It is time I take back the knife, and stab back where it hurt the most. Enforced empathy. Making you hurt like I hurt even if you don’t want to. Now you will all know. Now the world will know. That I will not shut up. Now we attack back. 

This girl fights. You seemed to have forgotten that. 

Trauma. We build up this conversation together my dear friend. You who monologues a lot like men do, who forgets that I made this myself too, a part of you may feel good for having helped me, but this is also fucking self-generated. We talked about this together, how trauma is the underlying epidemic to us all. It is the sweeping waves of suicide that we seem to find hard to explain (Duh??). It is the never-ending cycle of creating men (and sometimes steel women) who are not warriors, but machines. Of honouring psychopaths, capable of disguising themselves as heroes, but who are actually machines built up from a world that has taken out a piece of their usual empathetic development. It is not usual male aggression. It is broken boys. Fracturing other peoples sense of self, as traumatising a population becomes the greatest weapon of war. Civilians and women, children, weaker men. Today, battling in Syria and elsewhere, we are not fighting a just war. Our machine men from our psychotic culture are traumatising women and children, sexually abusing other men (remember Abu Ghraib in Iraq? that seemed hard to explain for some reason). The greatest form of destruction is to destroy the minds of a population. Fighting terrorism is a weird Freudian cover up of a will of our population to manipulate and enjoy destroying another. It is the need to keep our women quiet and useable, to satisfy this machine mentality of soldiers off to feel good about killing things. 

You and I were a microcosm. 

You took a part of me, as some have taken a part of you, to fill in the hole that they start to take out of us, to be part of this culture. We inherit the past of our parents. It is the Ouroboros. The never-ending cycle, a snake eating its tail. Until someone in the chain decides to say fuck off and break from it herself. You also had a choice when we started to see it happen. But you just wanted your own satisfaction really. Psycho.

My escape is a necessity. It has now gotten to the point that it is more dangerous for me to stay silent than to reach out and take control. 

This is me yelling. My art is me yelling. Our poetry is us yelling. This is me yelling about the very mantle of trauma that is stitched into the fabric of our society. It is so entrenched, as it has been in society, that it is barely utterable. Like a colour we cannot see, a collective amnesia. And it suddenly started spluttering out: Me too!

And me. 

I am one in three women, 

Lots of men told to kill their feelings.

Trauma comes in degrees, the refugee families and individuals I have met have amongst our laughter, our alchemy and dancing, talked about their trauma. I relate. It is not my trauma, nor my degree. But it is trauma. A category I relate to.

This is us taking back control. I do it for you but know that it is our turn to fight back. It is healthy to re-establish your boundaries of a world that took yours away. Create your knife.

So lets write, paint, sing, yell, make moments happen. Transform the world. Lets gain back control over narcissists that have fucked our world over. You are allowed to be the best you can. To brandish swards. 

So this is my life’s work. 

This is why I am doing this. And will continue to do things like this for all my future. And also, I am now going to have a fucking good time and enjoy life and not get caught up on this moment, or what ‘happened to me’, but it is important that it is out there, that it is not told to be kept silent. And if you every want to consider re-building your mind, or if you want redemption, this will be your life’s work too, or I will make it yours by force. Trust me, I am now the girl with the dragon tattoo, a dragon of my Mexican people that have been fucked over by white men like you (By the way, can you feel the power of Mexico and other countries starting to fight back? Being beautiful? Exciting right?). 

So these are the letters. The start to break silences, to have stabbing conversations. No I am not tame. No my parents. My family. I will not do this nicely and silently. If you want to write a letter that stabs go ahead, if you want to thank all those who truly saw you and your truth go ahead. If you want to honour the world with your words and your beauty, go ahead. Lets cut to the real. 

In a letter, you open the world. You can build and do other things you want from there. So lets start to stitch together connections of real discussions, or raw real open discussions, of the possibility of connecting networks between those who have seen trauma and who understand the pain of the world, and who alchemise it. We are the future. 

And fuck those who tell you to be less real, to tone it down. They are cowards. 

Dare, 

Dare to connect. 

We need truth more than ever.

We need reality more than ever. 

We need beauty more than ever. 

Fuck you Jack. 

Eliza. 

Right, now this is done, lets get back to life and cycling. 

[emmalt24]

A Significant Relationship

When I was 23/24 I went through a real I have no idea what the hell I’m doing with my life phase. I was working as a nanny and going through an incessant clubbing and running phase. Even though I was worried about the judgement from my parents and more straight edged high school peers it was one of the greatest carefree times in my life. I would be clubbing until 4am at a private members club in Mayfair then ferrying my insanely talented children I nannied around to national swim practice, tennis, hockey, you name it they did it. 

Maddox Mayfair - A favourite old haunt! Left to right; me, Jazz & Suraya (aka Susu / Island Cutie) 

Anyway, despite the fun of this laissez faire blip in my life. I was my harshest critic and I would constantly berate myself for not having chosen a graduate scheme in the field I had trained in. I had done well at school, in my degrees and had completed numerous internships and even worked alongside my masters degree. I don’t know what it was, office life just wasn’t for me. I felt I’d put all my eggs into one basket. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I’d always loved working with children and heavily considered becoming a teacher. So alongside my nannying job I also became a Teaching Assistant (just for one term, thank god) to make sure it was the path I wanted to follow. Alas, I decided to follow through and become a fully fledged teacher. 

My first day as a Teaching Assistant. I was happy I was taking a step in the right direction.

Let's just backtrack a little. I was lost in what I was doing. In that time I didn’t have a boyfriend per say but the occasional post clubbing hook up / casual dating but nothing which led to much. I remember my last full day of nannying before shortening my hours to work at the school as a teaching assistant, I went on a date with my (little did I know at the time) long term boyfriend for the next (nearly) four years. I may have told a little white lie on the date in telling him that I had been at my school for longer than I had just so he would think my life was a little more ‘on track’ than it was at the time! 

We met at a pub for a drink and the rest was history. In the years that ensued we went on numerous trips, moved in together, our families became close and we became a very established couple. From the moment we met, I felt that he filled in my blips, patchy career path and that we complemented each other. His education and career trajectory was a lot smoother than mine. He got four As at A Level, went to a top University and went on to build out startups and secure shares in them as he went along. I felt stability knowing that he was so professionally secure and in the time we were together I focused on getting my career on track. He supported me with applications, essays and he even convinced me not to quit Teacher Training when I felt I couldn’t go on. Without him I’m not sure I’d be where I am today. I was the sporty, lateral thinker and he was the intellectual, logical pragmatist. We balanced each other out (or so I thought). His Whats App messages were like poetry, carefully crafted with skilful intellect. I miss them a little . . . 

Obviously no one can ‘complete’ you. As I alluded to in my previous blog post, there is a reason behind the fact I often felt intellectually inferior to my ex and others. ALSO the cleverest girl in my class at school was also called Emma which didn’t help my situation, she was like Einstein. Throughout the relationship I never felt clever enough for him but I loved how he admired and appreciated the work I did and the level of patience he knew it required that was not in his repertoire. 

A predominately happy 4 year relationship (minus the fights…)

His friends wedding on a private island in the Philippines 

Dinner with friends 

The Break Up 

There obviously are reasons why every couple break up and I do not think it fair to post the nitty-gritty publicly online (nor can I really be bothered to write it all out). 

The crux of it was - we argued quite a lot and often blew very small things out of proportion. The slightest change of mood could turn into days of passive aggression and I often felt as though I were treading on eggshells to avoid the inevitable. He was hyper vigilant to any mood change on my behalf so I would always feel like I had to be a perfect girlfriend who was happy all the time even when he had upset me. I tried really hard but sometimes it’s impossible not to let your emotions show, especially when you live together, have had a stressful day or are not feeling your best. 

The days leading up to the break up 

We had been at one of my best friend's wedding together in India for nearly a week. I had to return for work but he had just left his job so he stayed on for about 10 days travelling.

The first night of my friends incredible Indian wedding in Mumbai.

I was back at our flat and was busy with work. He would send me daily updates and pictures of what he’d been up to. Some days he wouldn’t message me at all but when he did reach out he assured me that it was because of the lack of WiFi connection on the Karalan waves - fair enough. At the time I did not see our relationship in jeopardy. He returned on a Tuesday evening. I remember I had felt really unwell at work that day which was unlike me. I was susceptible to coughs and colds working around children but they would never stop me from going to school and generally getting on with my normal, everyday life. This evening in particular I felt feverish and just generally really bad. He had made dinner for me and was eager to tell me about his trip. I tried to act as interested as I could but I genuinely felt so awful, I think towards the end of the meal I admitted to him, ‘I think I’m coming down with something’. He had never been overly sympathetic with me when I had been ill in the past but he’d never had to be because I’d always bounced back in a day or two. I wasn’t so sure if I’d be able to this time… 

In the days that followed I felt worse and worse and I felt like the biggest nuisance to him despite not being able to help being unwell. I was off work a little and he used this as an opportunity to not be in the flat when I was there too. I remember on one of the days that week work sent me home at lunch because I felt so awful. I got home and had a hot bath, which only spiked my raging temperature higher and then bundled into layers of clothes and hurled myself beneath layers of blankets. I was incessantly shaking, coughing, genuinely felt like death. I was messaging him asking him to buy some things to make me feel better but he didn’t reply all evening. When he finally did return home he eventually made his way into the bedroom, gave some half hearted, ‘my phone had died and I didn’t see your messages’ excuse and offered me some vitamins?! I stupidly somehow went to work the next day, although I really shouldn’t have because I still felt terrible. Then the next night I was feeling extra awful again. I woke up in the morning and again was getting ready for work when I felt incredibly nauseous and sick. I decided to stay at home so I lay on the sofa while he was still asleep, booked a doctor's appointment and got my best friend's broth recipe to hopefully make me feel a little more human. He was suspicious as to why I wasn’t at school, questioned my prognosis and said that I was taking out feeling unwell on him. He left for the gym he was doing a trial at and then proceeded to spend the rest of the day at his parents house and didn’t message to see how I was doing until late in the evening. I went to the doctor, got some advice as to how to deal with my raging temperature, made my broth but still felt awful. I just remember trying to have a ‘room temperature’ shower amid shivers and just willing to feel normal again. 

That night he returned and the minute he walked in the door he could see from the look on my face that we needed to talk. I explained how hurt I was that he hadn’t supported me or checked in more over the past few days of not feeling well. He was half heartedly sympathetic and we ended up talking for the best part of three hours although the time escapes me, it was all a bit of a blur. All I remember was a long speel towards the end of the talk on our relationship - one was on making it work and moving forward and the other was the opposite. He built up both of the options like skyscrapers, one would stand tall rooted to its foundations and the other would come crashing down. He went for the second option and in that moment my entire world came crushing down. I just remember starring at him in astonishment, ‘this is over?’. I said in deep blindsided shock. ‘Yes’. He confirmed. I just couldn’t believe it, we were over, this was it, the end of us. 

The Catalyst 

That night I tossed and I turned, I just couldn’t sleep, I was in deep shock and utterly heartbroken. He wasn’t sleeping overly well either and I remember waking at the same time and asking him if last night really happened. It was a very tumultuous night but despite being unwell and exhausted I proceeded to having a very productive day despite not being able to make it through most hours without bursting into tears. He had a boozy lads Christmas Day planned with his football friends which he of course felt obliged to attend so I used the day to run errands and stay productive. He gave me that day (Saturday) to get my head together and then on Sunday he said he would help me pack up my things to move back home. I had some eBay items to sell so I first of all cycled to the post office to sort them out then I went on to a garden centre a few miles on to buy him a plant (we were obsessed with them) as a little parting gift. My head was all over the place, I probably would have bought him a car if he’d have asked for one! I returned to the flat briefly to shower then I went to a friends house up the road to walk their dog and hang out there after. They were going to be out for the day so they said I could stay there. I’d messaged them in the morning explaining what had happened so they were happy for me to stay there and keep their dog company. I just didn’t want to be alone in what I knew wasn’t our flat anymore. It was too heartbreaking, we had chosen the majority of the furniture together and had built a life there. Now it felt as though the rug had been completed ripped from beneath my feet. I even popped down the road to get my class an end of term gift, did a little workout at the house before collapsing into a heap of tears to which the labrador I was with tried to console me. Eventually (at around 9pm) I watched the film Marriage Story at the house, (which of course was totally the wrong film to watch at the time) and made myself a sympathy drink.

At this point I had barely eaten anything all day, it had slipped my mind a little. I was too focused on keeping busy. In the morning before my ex departed he made me a bagel, baked beans and a fried egg. This would be a typical weekend breakfast for us which I would usually lap up but I remember taking one bite of the bagel and not being able to go on. I had no appetite and food was last on my agenda. I had a few sips of coffee and got on with my day.

The next day was moving home day which physically hurt. Again I barely ate anything, I was too focused on packing everything up and dreading having to move back in with my parents. Not that my parents arn’t lovely, it just felt like the biggest step back. I tried to leave with as much grace as I came with, I was not angry and I did not shout, I was just so so sad. I remember loading up the dishwasher as he loaded up my car but then when I sat on the sofa and immediately noticed the dust on the table I thought to myself nah love you can do that! I think the way I dealt with the break up surprised him. He saw a side of me I didn’t even know I had. Nothing can prepare you for something like that, when you are shocked to your core. You don’t know how you’re going to react, you just ‘cope’. 

My parents helped get the bundles of clothes and other things out of my car into my room. There was a lot of stuff and I still had quite a few things left at the flat. I just remember my not very big room floor being covered with bags and I felt like I didn’t even know where to begin. I felt physically awful still and was just so shocked and sad. I somehow managed to sort it all and put some clothes out for work the next day, the last week of work before the Christmas Holidays. 

The week that followed at work was a bit of a blur. I’m not really sure how I made it in each day and put on a brave face. I remember on the Monday morning I’d just gotten into work and the Head and the Deputy Head were putting milk in the fridge in the corridor and as I walked past them I wanted to explain what had happened but I knew I’d burst into tears so I refrained and instead went over to my classroom. My teacher friend came straight over to my classroom, coffee in hand and hugged me tight (I burst into tears then surprise surprise!). She was (and still is) one of my biggest supports. I had the sweetest class at the time and each day that week after lunch during the register they would say, ‘Miss Thompson I hope you have the best Christmas ever’, I had the biggest lump in my throat when they said that to me! That week I didn’t eat lunch in the staffroom, I didn’t eat at all. Maybe a baby tomato or a banana but nothing substantial. Black coffee and chewing gum were my main sources of fuel that week. Little did I know that week would lead to a year of restrictive eating and purging. The breakup was the catalyst that lead me down a slippery path of self destruction as a subconscious way of numbing the pain of the breakup. 

[uro-boros]

sidequests

Missed connection:

You, with the bloody knuckles, angry and wound up like you were set to burst.

Me, blue balls, and bluer, hypothermic, balls.

–

It’s Marco who leans over to whisper conspiratorially in his ear, “That’s Eren, you should talk to him.” He says it with a smile that dimples both cheeks, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d funneled vodka down Jean’s throat like it was going out of style, he could be mistaken for the picture of angelic innocence. 

As it is, he’s funneled vodka down Jean’s throat. As it is, Jean’s spent the better part of two and a half years in love with him, wasting his lit major on truly terrible poetry about longing and unrequited love. Not that he thought it was terrible. His professor told him that.

“Nah,” he says instead, glancing quickly over at Eren – eyebrows knitted, frowning, fingers clasped around a dart – “I’m here for you, babe,” he winks, and it feels less stupid than it is because Marco laughs and because he has half a bottle of hard liquor sloshing around in his stomach.

Regrets, like hangovers, are saved for morning afters.

–

When he’s eighteen, he’s in love with Maxim models and busty Asian beauties that live on seedy websites. Nineteen comes with the shock of Marco who is neither a Maxim model nor a busty Asian beauty, but who Jean’s dick is definitely, definitely interested in.

It’s not what he’s expecting, but he likes to think he’s a liberal guy, so it’s fine. It’s cool. Marco’s hot. Marco’s nice and easy to talk to, and seems to think Jean is better than Jean actually is. He hasn’t really tried hard to dissuade Marco of that notion just yet.

“Well,” he says to himself, laying in his dorm bed after the first jerk-off session that features Marco prominently. “Well.”

His breathing feels ragged, like he’s just run a marathon. He thinks of Marco’s smile, and his dick gives a hopeful, pathetic twitch.

“Well, fuck,” he says, and rolls over to try to sleep.

–

“Fuck you, fuck you!” Jean hears shouted from across the street, a door slamming to accompany it. “God, you’re such a fucking asshole, I never should have–!”

Whatever comes next gets lost in the rain, but it sounds a lot like a fist hitting a wall, a yell strangled halfway through.

He doesn’t mean to look. It’s policy number one to let people deal with their own shit.

But maybe he’s feeling particularly maudlin tonight or maybe particularly lonely. Marco’s girlfriend moved in, and Jean smiled and toasted them and wished them all the best, and now he’s here, in the rain and fucking drenched without an umbrella, watching someone pace and shiver under a streetlight.

“Hey,” he calls, “you okay?”

The figure under the light stops.

“Are you talking to me?” It says. It’s hard to hear over the rain. 

This is weird, Jean thinks. He’s weird for doing this. Why is he doing this?

“I – I just heard,” his mouth forms before he can stop it. He hates vodka, and loves Marco. He can already feel a headache forming. “It just didn’t sound good,” he says.

The figure doesn’t move or answer.

Jean waits.

And waits.

And waits. Until he’s officially soaked and done with this, and the only sound is the sound of the rain, hitting the ground hard. 

And in the darkness, between the roars of the deluge, he hears: “Have you ever loved someone you really, really shouldn’t?”

Which yeah, is pretty much his fucking existence at this point.

“Yeah,” he says back. “Shit fucking sucks.”

There’s a startled laugh and the figure shifts, maybe like it’s turning away. “Yeah,” it agrees, “shit really fucking sucks.”

–

“I think you’d like Eren,” says Marco the next day, way too brightly for someone who passed out in the bathroom next to his girlfriend the night before. “And you should really get out and date more.”

“You my mom?” Jean asks him, eyebrow arching. “Also, why Eren? I like women.”

“And guys,” Marco grins. Jean regrets telling him that. He continues, a little more delicately than the bulldozing he’s been pulling on Jean: “And I think you two would be good together. Eren needs someone…a little sweeter.”

“I’m sweet?” he asks, shaking his head. “Nah, Marco, I’m good.” Quieter, he goes on, “I met someone last night anyway.”

The professor comes in and lecture starts before Marco can press, though he clearly wants to. 

There are small mercies and miracles in the world. Sometimes, they even deign to save Jean.

–

Who did you meet, his phone buzzes in class, are they nice? are they cute? what’s their name? how did you meet? at my party? You have to tell me!

Jean ignores it because it feels stupid to type back, I found them crying outside in the rain after getting kicked out of someone’s place. It feels dumber to say that he has no idea who they are or if that even counts as a meeting.

Five minutes in the rain and shared heartbreak. A missed connection for something that never existed. A point of time that only existed on the edge of something else – of other relationships and other people.

Talk about romantic.

Instead, he thumbs his phone off and ducks out of class right as the professor finishes up. Marco pouts at him from the seats, but waves back when Jean waves at him.

–

Of course, his fingers are stupid.

Missed connection, he writes, on the stupid forum he signed up for as a freshman and then promptly never used.

You, crying, doesn’t sound fair. Me, pining for someone else, isn’t either.

He writes something dumb.

Hits enter.

Later, this will be a grave mistake, and also something brilliant. The universe has a weigh of balancing.

–

His inbox blows up with precisely four messages in the first two hours. By hour six, he’s at ten – a dozen or so likes, more laughing emojis. A few comments on his balls, which he deserves, admittedly.

Then, this:

Missed Connection:

Me, breaking up with my boyfriend.

You, shouting at me from across the street like some freak, who the fuck does that? 

But also me: love is kind of shitty, let’s get a drink. I never learn from my mistakes, so why start now? ;)

The profile associated with it is newly made – there’s no picture, just a silhouette of a head and shoulders, and the profile name only reads E.

How am I supposed to do that, he writes back with shaky hands.

Figure it out, says E. Which – isn’t helpful in the slightest.

Jean feels himself grinning in spite of it.

–

That’s when shit goes down, predictably. It takes off like a wildfire – missed connections and blue balls, the mysterious E, and a drink on the line. Jean gets hundreds and hundreds of messages with suggestions that turn into thousands. 

Marco texts him in all caps and half emojis, and calls him three times in the span of twenty minutes, breathless and laughing.

The reporters bite next.

Modern day Cinderella, goes up an article on the school’s news site the next morning. His name is in it, and his school picture, his major and even his fucking favorite movie (Marco), and it spells out the details of Marco’s party – at a bar, not a ball, though the way it’s spun in the report paints it in a lot more grand of detail than the reality of the dingy student bar – and Jean leaving at midnight.

“I went home at two,” he points out to Marco, “after puking in the bathroom.” Marco waves a hand.

“Details,” he says, dismissive.

It’s ridiculous.

“Everyone’s really into this,” Marco tells him earnestly. He’s smiling; a soft blush has spread across his cheeks and his hair, unruly, keeps falling into his eyes. Jean wants to push it away. 

“Yeah, well,” he says, looking away and clearing his throat, “I have three thousand emails from people saying they’re E, and another ten thousand of people telling me who they think E is. So. I don’t exactly see anything happening from this.”

“Come on, don’t be like that,” says Marco. “It’s romantic. You never know what could happen.”

“They deleted their profile,” Jean tells him. The initial rush has died down. He still wants Marco, and swallows it the thought down the back of his throat like a bitter drink. “And the school is huge.”

“You’re such a defeatist,” Marco sighs. “I could always text Eren if you want a date." 

Before Jean can say no, Marco sighs again, his eyes gentle and his lips curving into a slightly sad smile. "But that's a no, isn't it?" 

Jean rubs his hand on the back of his neck and shrugs. "You know me," he trails. "Well, you know me."

--

It takes him approximately twenty minutes to walk from campus to his apartment, depending on weather and other things, like blood alcohol content.

But mid-afternoon on a spring Tuesday is a quiet type of day, and Jean doesn't day drink as a rule (an easily broken one, but still, a rule). He gets out of his last class of the day at about thirty minutes past one. His papers are written, and possible tests are a distant problem for future Jean. He's bored and vaguely lonely, a tiny itching sensation under his skin. He's also resolutely ignoring his phone, which has more texts on it than he's ever received in his life. 

He tugs the beanie on his head a little further down around his ears. Combined with his glasses, it's proven an effective disguise for navigating the worst of campus busy spots despite his new and unexpected popularity. 

It's not quite effective enough to stop Eren Jaeger. 

"Hey!" Comes a shout from behind him. "Hey, hey, hold up." Jean keeps walking. Maybe even at a slightly faster pace. 

"Don't be a dick! I said hold up!" The voice shouts again. There's a distinct huff and then the sound of feet hitting the pavement hard. Then, a distinct presence beside him. 

"Hey," says the presence. 

Jean turns his head and says, "If you're here about that post online, I don't want to talk about it." 

Then he sees who's next to him. 

"What?" Says Eren, blinking at him. His brow furrows. "Uh, no, whatever, you're Marco's friend, right? John?" 

"Uh," Jean says smartly. Which isn't fair to him. He actually is pretty smart. 

Eren waits. His arms are wrapped around a big duffle, nearly half his size. He's a little smaller than Jean, in all, and takes a half step more for every one Jean takes. Slowing his pace is an unconscious action. 

"John," repeats Eren slowly, "Marco's friend?" 

"It's actually Jean," he finally manages at a point long enough after Eren’s question for Eren’s expectant waiting to go from exasperated to oh, he’s slow.

“Jean,” Eren corrects himself. “Marco’s friend.”

“Yeah,” says Jean, “Marco’s friend.” He wonders when German lost so many words -- maybe the dictionary shit itself at some point in the last ten minutes, reducing its contents to Jean, John, Marco, and friend. With the way his life has been going, he wouldn’t be surprised. 

Eren smiles. His cheeks don’t dimple with it, the way Marco’s do, but the curve of his lips is plush and mischievous. “Let’s get a drink.”

-- That’s how, on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, Jean gets disgustingly drunk. 

Eren’s preferred drink of choice is Fireball, which is disgusting; his second choice is whiskey-coke, which is marginally better. “Everyone always thinks it’s going to be Jägermeister, because my last name is Jaeger, so fucking funny, ha ha,” he tells Jean sometime during the first round. 

“So, Fireball is your teenage rebellion?” Jean asks him and gets a cackle in response.

“Something like that,” Eren acknowledges, and folds his arms across the table, laying his head down on them. His eyes are green and intense; Jean feels caught under them, pierced and pieced out. He seems to be waiting for something, but what, Jean doesn’t know. 

He orders a second round as an escape, and a third round to forget.

The fourth round is so that Eren doesn’t go home, and the fifth so Jean goes back with him when he does.

--

The stripping and sex is furious and fast. Jean’s too drunk to slow either of them down.

He thinks it hurts Eren, at some point, maybe in the middle of it. There’s a part where Eren’s expression screws up tight and he gasps a noise that sounds wrenched from him, but when Jean goes to stop, he can’t, urged on by Eren’s grip around his shoulders and his slurred come on, come on, harder. He thinks, maybe the pain is deeper than where he can reach, and it’s an unfair thought. He’s drunk. He bites Eren’s shoulder and fucks him hard like Eren begs him to.

He’ll be nicer in the morning. It’s always easier in the morning.

--

It’s never easier in the morning, especially when you wake up hungover in a bed that isn’t your own, covered in purpling bites and reddened welts from blunt nails.

Jean wakes up with a hangover, aching, and in an empty bed. He isn’t particularly surprised by any of that 

There’s a yellow sticky note on the nightstand, next to some Advil, a bottle of water, and his clothes, folded in meticulous, military-neat folds underneath.

He takes his time waking up, blinking blearily at the popcorn ceiling, stretching his shoulders and feeling them pop with a satisfying burst of pain. When he feels ready, he rolls over and grabs at the note.

Thanks for getting a drink with me, it says in slanted, loping cursive. I have class, but there’s some leftover pizza in the fridge if you wake up and you’re hungry. I’m out at 2.   

It’s a pretty polite way to let someone down after a one-stand, in all, and even gives a helpful time to be out by. Jean scans it a few times before the words connect to any sort of meaning in his head; then he stands, pops the Advil, and dresses. 

He fishes his phone out of his pocket -- and winces when the screen comes on at full brightness. Dozens of voice mails, hundreds of texts, all some variation of asks about E. He doesn’t know; hungover, he doesn’t particularly fucking care about E. It was a throwaway post, because Jean felt sappy and sad, and someone else had also been sad, and now it defines him.

It makes his hackles raise for a brief second, but his head hurts and the effort that anger takes isn’t worth sustaining. He presses delete on the voice mails and delete on the texts.

There are five from Marco. His heart hurts more than his head.

Jean hits delete on those too.

--

Sometime on the way home, his phone dies. He lets it stay off, pulling his blinds shut and crawling into bed.

You’re such a defeatist, Marco had chided him. But it was easier, wasn’t it, to always expect failure and not victory.

--

He wakes up to a banging on his door that he can’t ignore like he can his phone.

“What, Marco, I don’t feel like talking --“ he starts before cutting himself off. In front of him, with a plastic bag of Chinese takeout, is Eren Jaeger. 

“Um,” says Jean, realizing he’s standing in his doorway in boxers.

“I saw it all last night,” Eren says cheerfully, pushing his way past Jean’s arm and to the shitty, wobbly table in Jean’s living room. “Come on, come on, I brought lunch.”

He’s already unloading noodles onto plates, handing one over to Jean as soon as Jean, a little blown away, sits down. “You know,” Eren says, pointing the prongs of his fork at Jean before biting into a piece of broccoli, “I said I’d be back at two. And you didn’t give me your number? I had to ask Marco, and then you didn’t pick up your phone, so then I had to ask Marco for where you lived, and it was an entire thing, so don’t do that again.” 

“My phone died,” Jean says lamely.

Eren nods. “Yeah, I figured.” And he smiles, and it’s a nice smile, even if it’s not Marco’s smile, thinks Jean. It’s nice because it’s Eren’s smile. 

He may be a little overwhelmed. 

“This is probably a lot,” continues Eren, with a hand wave at the Chinese food and himself. “But you know, I’m batting three out of three right now, what with finding you, getting the drink, and fixing the blue balls, so I thought I could push my luck a little. If this isn’t cool, though, I get it.”

“It’s cool,” Jean says reflexively. Then, “Three out of three?”

“Yeah?” Eren quirks an eyebrow. “I mean, technically, I told you to figure it out, but whatever. Worked out in the end.”

Jean swallows. It feels weirdly hard to do.

“You’re E. Because E stands for Eren. You’re Eren.”

“Yeah,” Eren says encouragingly. “Me, Eren. You, Jean.” There is a pregnant pause, as gears begin to turn and the pieces begin to click.

“Oh god,” Eren says, his gentle mocking tone from earlier fraying at the ends and bleeding into panic, “you didn’t know it was me, did you?”

Jean swallows again; this time, it’s like swallowing sand. “No,” he teases out from his suddenly uncooperative tongue.

Eren’s expression is caught between various shades of horror. Jean forces himself to swallow for a third time.

“Did you know,” he says, nearly strangling himself to get it out, “that Marco and like, half of the student population, wants us to date? It’s going to be a little disappointing for them if all we did was bang.”

The horrified cast of Eren’s expression eases just a little. “Yeah,” he says, “guess we can’t do that.”

“No,” Jean agrees, “I guess we’ll just have to go on a date after all.”

The smile he gets is worth it.

[wilhelmphoenix-blog]

“Richmond”:

Richmond, VA. RVA, as it’s often referred to colloquially, hipster capital of the state (as well as actual state capital) and my current pinpoint of existence before the next one comes along - whenever that may be, if at all. I came here around 7 months ago after finally escaping my hometown of Virginia Beach. I remember the day I came up here on a whim to visit friends from college at the Stone Brewing just a hop, skip and jump from Shockoe Bottom, and was offered an opportunity to move up here. 

It was about a week and a half before my dad passed away.

Even though the job I found that brought me up here in late December last year turned out to be absolutely nothing like what was advertised in the online posting and subsequent interviews, it still felt like the slightest step up compared to life back in VB. About five months after graduating from William & Mary, and one year before my dad died, I was left with no option to stay with my dad full time for a time. Then aged 77, living on his own and a full blown alcoholic regularly drinking himself into oblivion every night, he needed daily care so as not to be a danger to himself or anyone else.

So I lived with him, driving him around where he needed to go and walking the dog too strong for him while continuing to further break into online journalism as a freelancer. I’d see friends from college as often as I could whether they were elsewhere doing great things with their lives or if they were still back in Williamsburg finishing up their own time there, but time with all of them was relatively limited given what my priorities were. For the first few months, I was fine. Living in Virginia Beach was no picnic because, well, it’s Virginia Beach, but I was doing alright given the circumstances.

And then, I wasn’t. I can’t trace it back to any specific moment. I just wasn’t. I’d often think about how most people I’d known from college that had graduated with me in 2015 were gainfully employed, in grad school or doing something else wonderful with their lives, while I was stuck. Stuck having to take care of my alcoholic father, stuck in the cultural wasteland that is Virginia Beach and stuck in my professional pursuits with few and little upward leaps made.

I could feel myself quickly spiraling down with each passing week. I was angry at my dad for his addiction, angry at myself for trying to do something with my life that’s tough as shit to break into and most of all, seemingly incurably depressed about it all. And I did everything I could to deny that I was. I buried myself in work, in continuing to write creatively whether it was poetry or my first screenplay, for which I enlisted the help of a friend I’ve known since the second grade (now she lives in New York City and writes amazing stuff for Vanity Fair, and she got called out by Tucker Carlson on live television, which is fucking hilarious).

Of course, none of it was working. Not even seeing friends as often as possible was helping, but I couldn’t ever admit that to myself. And every now and then, I felt what it was like to be on the verge of ending my own life. The heavy, oppressive numbness to my own existence that kept seductively whispering in my head, “It’s okay. You don’t have to hurt anymore.” I felt like a walking blank space. But every time I felt the urge to do anything about it, I’d picture the potential black nothingness of death and being dead and scare myself into existing despite my greater impulses (thanks, atheism).

Actually admitting to myself that I wasn’t doing alright, and then admitting it to family was one of the hardest things I think I’ll ever do. And once I did, shockingly, I found myself getting a little better every day as the anger was washed over by clarity. I started seeing a counselor every other week, who would be there to console me when my dad’s time on Earth was done, as were so many others to whom I could extend all of the gratitude this world has ever known, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Life with my dad gone was going oddly better than before, but it definitely wasn’t that much easier. Since he passed, I’ve had at least three anxiety attacks about my life in connection to him, one of which happening at a weekend Thanksgiving celebration in Fairfax with a bunch of people I knew from the fraternity I was part of, and another that was the impetus for me to quit that shitty job I took and begin writing about movies again (I hadn’t written so much as a single letter for two months after my his death).

And now here I am, writing about movies in a different city for still no pay and looking for a part-time gig to support my endeavors. Life in Richmond has been great by comparison, but I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit that what the future holds and the sustainability of this project keeps me up at night sometimes. Some days are fantastic, and on others, it’s difficult not to think that life hasn’t changed that much since I moved, and that I continuing to dig myself into an inescapable hole.

To make a long story short (too late), this song is about that despair, while making cathartic use of the depression that I know still lurks inside me and used to dominate my everyday life. A lot of this was inspired by various Counterparts songs and the masterful eloquence vocalist Brendan Murphy commands over imagery created by language. I also listened to Every Time I Die’s new-ish song “Petal” for influence. Like, a lot. Though where’s the surprise there? I consume that band’s heavy ‘70s rock and southern-style hardcore, sludgy riffs and philosophical lyrics as if it were a daily requirement for bare minimum sustenance.

I was planning on sharing this song around this time anyway, but the recent death of Linkin Park singer Chester Bennington gave me greater impulse to share what I felt once upon a time, potentially give someone else an extra outlet for their own emotions and extend a loving hand to anyone who’s feeling the same way, whether I know you or not. You are not alone. Your demons are not who you are. We are right here with you. We are not going anywhere. And we love the fucking shit out of you. It’s okay to not be okay.

Trace the map and change the name when nothing's new, but it's not the same. The wild's been already tamed.

Mount a stranger's kill on the wall 'cause you ignored the trigger's call. If it doesn't hurt, you didn't fall.

Just take my cut and lock it in a safe I cannot crack.

The fire at sea extinguished by oil. The beacon that's tasked to shine through the soil.

I guess I'll wake up and live for a day I've never seen. I grew a heart to spite my noble legs and build a life on repeat.

A banana peel with both feet in the grave. His heart could still beat, but the eyes looked glazed.

I almost slipped when he was already gone. What excuse have I got?

Blood twixt flesh and bone has got more homes than I. These clouds overhead can't do much if I'm not one with the sky.

But I guess I'll wake up and live for a day I've never seen. I grew a heart to spite my noble legs and build a life on repeat.

I've yet to pay as much as I have lost, and I'll pay much more to know when it all stops. The 'where,' the 'how' are unimportant thoughts. Just tell me 'when' it all will fucking stop.

I've yet to pay as much as I have lost, and I'll pay much more to know when it all stops. The 'where,' the 'how' are unimportant thoughts. Just tell me 'when' it all will fucking stop.