Tear us apart? Baby, I would rather be dead
I have loved you since I was born. I have written this letter in my mind one hundred times. Looking over at you with drunken adoration in a sweaty nightclub while we dance as badly as only you and I can.
Ain’t no river wide enough, baby
Every Mother’s Day, the Instagram grid transforms into a love letter to the women who’ve given us all life. Beloved matriarchs who hold a family together. Powerhouse single mothers who’ve brought up an entire brood on one wage. Step-mums that’ve welcomed another woman’s children as their own. The mums that double as best friends, cheerleaders, and life navigators. This is a love letter to the in-between – a candle to the grey area.
Why Springsteen and sex appeal are mutually exclusive
Just before this time last year, in the days of throwing your arms around your friends at every possible moment, sipping on the same straws in bottomless brunch triathlons, and sharing a cig because you don’t fancy a full one but then going on to chain-smoke a whole pack, I concluded a night out by getting a lift home from the guy I was sleeping with. Throughout the car journey, I detailed at length how I would never, ever settle down with a man unless the man in question was Bruce Springsteen.
Jacket potatoes and time travel
Lately, I’ve been thinking about time travel. Mostly, how it lacks all the urgency of Doc Brown’s race to channel 1.21 gigawatts of energy and 88 miles per hour into the DeLorean with a single strike of lightning, and how really, it’s much quieter – almost indiscernible. It creeps up gently and softens the edges a little. A vignette: remember this? Now, I don’t even remember what I thought of Back to the Future before I knew it was his favourite film.
The beginnings of summer in a global pandemic
I’ve lost my passport.
I’m declaring it ‘lost’ / but really, it’s in my room somewhere, buried among a sea of boxes I’ve still yet to unpack. / ‘My room’ / my little brother’s old room / the spare room.
Are you in love?
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. It’s also four months – give or take a couple of days – since I broke up with my boyfriend of five years, and the first time I’ve been single on the 14th of February in almost a decade. Each of these facts means something – though I’m not quite sure what, exactly.
I'll tell you in the morning
An unlikely Halloween pairing. You, a priest; and me, Mia Wallace (predictable). I almost went home with your crucifix – instead, you took my number. / Small sentences on blue screens slowly became paragraphs. You ran out of credit and borrowed Joe’s phone to send me questions about my childhood, with anecdotes about yours. / 2013 romance.
The language of love
“Did you ring about the electricity bill?” / “I’ll have dinner ready for when you get home.” / “Remember to pick up some teabags on your way.” / “Shall I turn the heating on before I go?” / “What’s our council tax reference number?” / “We’ve ran out of milk again”
Reclaiming my body
On November 1st 2014, I was sexually assaulted. It took me almost two years to say those words – to define it. My attacker was someone I’d known for almost half of my life. My friend. My boyfriend’s friend. I awoke to it happening. I didn’t fight back or scream, nor did I get up. I pretended I wasn’t awake, and I waited for it to end. My actions – or lack thereof – did not constitute consent. It’s taken me a long time to tell myself that, too – to fight the part of myself that questioned, "What if you'd resisted? Would things be different now?”