The Sadness

I listen to the sound of upchuck as it plops into the toilet water, chunk by chunk. My throat burns with the last heave. I drag a gush of air into my lungs and wheeze it out as I rest my forehead on the toilet bowl. My hair is glued to my face, the sound of my breath echoes in the toilet bowl, and a drop of sweat beads down my cheek and drops into the vomit. One more time I force my fingers down my throat. I gag. Nothing. I gag again. My ribs buckle inward as my stomach muscles clench and my eyes pulse and my knees bruise from kneeling on the icy gray marble. My hand slides over green slime gathered in clumps between the cracks in the repulsively painted wall as I grip for support while I purge. I repeat the process until my stomach growls and I am hungry again.

I cling onto the washbasin and pull myself up. I flush the toilet. The gush echoes. I face the mirror. I see a woman of twenty glaring back at me. Blood red veins crawl across her sclerae and around her dark green irises. Large black circles ring her eyes. Thin strands of dirty blonde hair plaster to her pale face. Her teeth are yellow. Her features are sad. I open the white medicine cabinet and pop a dose of Prozac, along with a handful of laxative pills. Cold tap water gushes into my cupped hands and I splash my face three times – once for me, once for her, and once to wash away the sadness.

I zombie out the bathroom door, down the hallway, and into my bedroom. The bed is king sized and messy; the drapes are beige and pulled shut. A “Nothing Tastes Better Than Skinny Feels” poster hangs on the open closet door and dirty jeans spill onto the floor. My Takamine acoustic guitar stands in the left corner of the room. It collects dust. I drop face-first onto the bed, letting my feet hang off the sides.

My stomach grumbles.

I head down to the kitchen. Yanking the fridge door open, I fumble for a bag of toast. I dig into the bag for a slice. I spring roll it and consume it in two bites.

120 calories.

I eat twelve slices, folding cheese into them out of boredom.

Over 3000 calories.

I’m still hungry. A half-eaten chocolate cake teases me. Normally, I hate chocolate – but not today. I let my fingers sink into the brown lava. I let my teeth follow. Goodbye cake. I scan the fridge for leftovers and move onto the cupboards. A bag of chips and three KitKat bars sit on the top shelf. I am full, Thanksgiving dinner full, but I am still hungry.  And so, I eat. I eat until I feel my stomach press against my lungs. I eat until the food flows up my esophagus, and piles at the brink of my throat. And then I stop.

I take a seat at the kitchen table and lay my head against it.

I breathe slowly.

I feel sick.

The Cure

You down the drink.
You smoke the cigarette.
You have another bite.
You change the song.

You wait. This isn’t working.

You down the drink.
You smoke the cigarette.
You have another bite.
You change the song.

You wait. This isn’t working.

You gulp the drink.
You burn the cigarette.
You stuff your face.
You press next.

You wait. This isn’t working.

You drink.
You smoke.
You eat.
You listen.

This isn’t working. You don’t wait.


Drink, Smoke, Eat, Music.

Glug, Puff, Gulp, Click.
Glug, Puff, Gulp.
Glug, Puff, Glug, Puff.
Glug, glug, glug, glug.

The Emotional Terrorist

She’ll tell him once more,

As she’s told him before,

That’s she’s tried to forgive,

But that her heart will not give,

And so with his finger he’ll point,

And with his voice he’ll blame,

“You’re an emotional terrorist, you’re a whore!”

And, maybe she is – a terrorist and a whore, that is.

But she’d rather be that,

than a father with no shame.

The Things I Wish You Would Let Me Do

Let me cut my hair – no, let me shave it.

Because I did not grow it for you,

and I’ll shave it for me.

Let me sing. Loud. Louder than you. 

Not just to you, at midnight;

when I slit the silence with Radiohead’s “Creep”,

Only to sing you to sleep.


Let me belt, on a stage;

because it holds me till I sicken of being held,

and it does not crumble beneath me.

Like you do. 

Let me dance. Badly. Terribly. Always.

Because I can, and I want to.

And I don’t care if I can’t riddle my hips to a rhythm,

Like her.

Let me write. With adverbs. With too many words. With too little emotion.

Because you’re a cliché.

And I shouldn’t write you, or love you, or want you clawing at the pages of my story.

But I need to write her. A velvet veil of hair; light against the wisps of hazel in her eyes; dark against her pastel skin.

And how you fell into her. Because I left home for university, and you still worked at that gym of ours. Then one day she walked in. And suddenly, she was there; and I wasn’t.

And how you fell out of me. Just for a while, but you kept me anyway. Because when I came back home, and asked you if you loved her, truly; you handed me the plastic spoon we shared over melted ice-cream, and swiftly said, “yes”. And you kept me anyway.

So, let me eat. A lot. And then vomit.

Because that’s how I cry.

Let me drink. Whiskey. Neat. A bottle. Or two.

Because my father is an alcoholic,

And relentless, you remind me.

You’re just like your father,” you say.

And I let you lash your palm against my face;

and I feel like my father, whom I hate.

And I listen

To you.   

But now you don’t get to say.

Now, I get to taste the liquor on my lips.

I get to paint them,

with a golden Whiskey glisten.

And slur curses

At you.

Let me fuck. Anyone but you.

So I can forget the glint in your cocoa eyes under the dimmed lights of Room 308, at that Stella Resort by the beach back home. When I was seventeen and it was five years ago today, a little before sunset; and your naive hands slid beneath my skirt as the sun slipped into the sea. 

And you said, “I love you” as you took me, for you.

Like you did each night since. Like the sea takes the sun. 

Let me breathe. By myself. Without your air.

Because I don’t need it anymore.

Let me feel. Let me feel pain, both brutal and beautiful. 

Brutal, like your hungry lips smearing her ruby red lipstick, and your weight pressing her perfect nakedness onto our sheets.

Beautiful, like the day I fed you strawberries and Nutella on the roof of my building, and the wind blew our picnic away. And you told me you “lo-”, no, “liked” me; because you never say the L-word first.

Let me ache.

Because without pain, without pain, without pain, I have nothing. 

Let me leave. Just let me try.

But no, you cannot let me.

So, “leave me,” I beg. 

Because  I cannot leave you.

The First One

Your satirical Sex and the City; a hub of all things ‘drama’, with an extra spazz of sass.

On this website, I’ll be telling all your cliche, drama-filled stories – as they happen in real life. The boy who left you, the girl who crushed your heart, and the way your buddies and touch of tequila fixed it. From poems to short stories to weekly entries; I hope never to leave you void of a shot of drama, a hint of sass, and a wild world you ‘just can’t help but relate to’.


As for today, a six-word story:

“Who’s is this?” she asked him.




I’m sick of trying. So hard. So hard to please you and you and you. To act like you and you and you. To write like you and you and you. To feel like a romantic tragedy. To fight like a war. To hurt like death. To die like a martyr. I’m sick of trying. So hard. So hard to live life. To live life so hard that I feel like a romantic tragedy and I fight like a war and I hurt like death and I die like a martyr. I have to stop trying. So hard. To be. To be me. I have to stop trying. So hard. To exist. For I do. Without trying.