If I woke up tomorrow and nothing hurt, I would assume I was dead.


When I was a kid, I used to tend to cry a lot. 

I was one of those kids who could pretty much cry the house down. 
So, when I turned twelve and started to realise that I was incapable of crying, I was quite surprised. 
I would spend a lot of my time trying to make myself miserable. Nothing seemed to work. I didn’t even feel sad, let alone shed a tear.

People would tell me I was a horrible person and I seemed to believe them because I didn’t feel like a good person at all. No kid would if they were unable to cry at a funeral.

5 years from then and I am still the same person. Weirdly enough, I don’t feel as horrible as I did, even though I’ve done a lot of things I wouldn’t consider very nice since then.

However, I remained curious about my inability to feel, so I decided to experiment. I know a lot of people who don’t cry very often but could quench all of Africa’s thirst if they were physically hurt. That’s when it hit me that that was exactly what I needed to do. 

I stood there unwrapping a new blade, 

taking off my jeans, holding it against my waist. 
I took a breath and ran it down my thigh. 

As I saw it sink into my skin, the blood trickling down my leg,

I felt myself smirk. 

I could just imagine how I looked at that moment.

My thigh tingled, and for the first time in days, 
I felt at peace.  


I felt her cold hands on my back,

my legs held her up.
As our necks found a rhythm,
she was in my head,
and our eyes were one.

Her eyes were some colour I can’t remember
but her lips were as red as my wrists.
My teeth were a part of her now
and I almost unearthed her soul.

As her toes buried themselves in my bed,
I felt all of me go numb,
and that’s when I knew,
my lungs moved to her command.

I Am Not An Insomniac

Some mornings I wake up feeling like I’ve had a much crazier night than Pete Wentz in 2005 but it’s probably just my head playing games with me.

Or the lack of sleep. Or the sinful amount of coffee. I don’t mind though.

When I hit the bed after days of no sleep, I could just stay there forever.

Peckish, warm, frail. I like that feeling. It’s one of the few times I don’t feel angry. The probably however is when I have to get out of bed.

I stumble, crawl and give up.
Vertigo. Nausea. Weakness.

It’s not sleep that I hate. It’s more the feeling of waking up that I loathe.

I’m quite sure not everyone wakes up like I do, but then again, not everyone’s ill all the time like I am. 

I am not an insomniac, I might just be losing my mind. 


When it gets dark, everything’s surprisingly clear.

Like your intentions. Mine on the other hand are mostly shy.

As I sit here staring at my coffee, I can’t help but think about us.

The time we finally let go and let it unfurl.

I remember standing there and realising that the only sparks in that room were the ones Coldplay were singing about in the background.

I tried so hard to convince myself that eventually I would feel something but I knew it was a mistake the moment I tasted the cheap weed on your tongue.

Now, I’m left with memories I loathe and coffee that’s almost as cold as my heart.