Your keys on the bedside table. The same games you play. The same girl as you always used to be. Sometimes beautiful. Sometimes afraid. Always needy. In your satchel, you keep a journal with most of its pages ripped out. On the few pages that remain is a list of all the men you’ve slept with. It’s a long list. Not that I’m judging, or anything. I’m just saying, it’s a long list. We all have our vices I guess. Those who don’t are rarely worth knowing. In this depleted journal along with those names of yours are fragments of poetry written on a whim. They deal with your struggling conscious and your fears about growing old. About how you don’t want to end up like your mum, and how you wish to be loved not as a woman or as a sexual being, but as a soul. It’s kinda tragic, but there’s tragedy in every home on every street up and down the land. Not that I’m undermining your struggle or anything. I’m just saying. We all have our demons. They can either drive us or break us. Sometimes they do both. Both outcomes are preferable. One without the other is just too predictable. On the bedside table, your phone vibrates, but you’re asleep. When you sleep, you look real pretty. You look like you were made to break a million hearts, but the only heart you’ll break is your own. It’s like a form of self-harm. I think deep down you enjoy hurting yourself. You keep pushing those around you further and further away, and then you justify your actions and paint yourself as the hapless victim. Pretty much the same as I do, right? Despite knowing the outcomes, and despite knowing how it all ends, these things just can’t be helped.