Iamnotarobot.

I think when I would desperately give pieces of myself away to anyone who would accept them I was hoping that those pieces would disappear. That the more I gave, the less I would have. Trying to escape myself by abandoning what I could. Except those pieces did not leave me as they left with men/boys/women/girls/strangers, they mutated into something more, some badge of shame, of evidence that now my damage was not just internal. It was out, in the world, it had been seen, it was physical, manifest. I wish I had known that sooner, before I scattered proof of my mess all over the world. I wish I had known I could not outrun myself. I was thinking that the comfort others words can bring, when you can feel like the loneliest person in the world. I plaster the words below on my walls, but for what? That someone will read them, no for comfort. All the Wino’s, the Apple’s, the Atwood’s and the Spektor’s in the world cannot save me, but they’ll bring comfort when I feel at my wits end.

Hello clean sheets, goodbye old photographs, cigarette packets and old diaries. But what does this achieve? A certain part must manifest in me, I know what I have done, and in fact I think I’m the only person in the world who knows everything. That is only the half of it.

No one will save me; I shall decay in a mess of my own doing. Yet I am determined not to.





‘See I’m trying to find my place, but it might not be here while I feel safe. We all learn to make mistakes, and run from them, run from them, with no direction run from them run from them with no conviction, I’m just one of those ghosts. Travelling endlessly, don’t need no roads, in fact they follow me. And we just go in circles....’

Comfort was far too easy. But what did I leave? Something I cannot salvage, long gone out to sea, carried by a tide, gone forever. I can cry a sea full of tears, but it will not bring it back. No crossing back on old roads, I shall turn my back on them. A mark on the map of my past is all. Damaged but not blighted, strong but not victimised. We’ve swapped places in our little game and I am at a stale mate, however you play on, with indifference.

It has been so long since I have cried.

‘Come into my world I’ve got to show show show you, come into my bed I’ve got to know know know you. I have dreams of orca whales and owls but I wake up in fear, you will never be my, you will never be my fool. Floaters in my eyes wake up in a hotel room, cigarettes and lies I am a child grown too soon..’



‘You will never be, my dear dear friend’♥



Will we look back on this with fondness or hatred?