a sagittarius and an aries divulge the secrets of the female experience.
“Life is truly known only to those who suffer, lose, endure adversity and stumble from defeat to defeat”
Anais Nin
and fuck, i remember those amazing eighteen year old arms of yours, and the smell of smoke on your fingers. i remember every one of those awkward thirteen, fourteen, fifteen year old hands sliding towards my tits in the dark. teenage boys need new tricks! i remember worrying that you might read my mind and know how many times a day i thought of you. i remember lying in the dark in the power cut, holding hands and listening to the angry girls you put on your ipod especially for me. or maybe i was your excuse to listen to female vocalists. both thoughts make me smile. i remember all the journeys home, never meeting my curfew. i remember the five synchronised helicopters above our heads. i remember watching you sleep. i remember falling to my knees because i couldn’t breathe. i remember looking into your eyes as you lied to me. i am a far better actress (although not a liar, i loathe liars) than i would ever have anyone know. i remember being cruel to you, but only to hide my admiration. i remember fucking in your on-again-off-again bestfriend’s bathroom, bedroom, living room (every room?) because if we weren’t fucking we were fighting. i remember sitting opposite you, the moment of epiphany - wherein i saw you for who you really are, and thinking “fuck, no one’s ever going to love you”. i remember feeling sorry for every girlfriend that every boyfriend-that-wasn’t-mine ever went back to. “good. keep him, he’s scum”, ever hissing something indelicate like that to them as they rang me for the n’th time, months later, to ask if he was at mine again (and all those ‘he’s’ never were) and the poor things never learnt. nor did i, though. i remember your patience but ultimately i don’t understand it. i remember the lie you told about me, to save your career. i remember offering you something one year (not myself, although I might have), you declined. oh, but the next! and now you’re on death row. i remember you telling me, months later, about what an arrogant, conceited little bitch i was when you were fucking me. i neither doubt nor recall it if i’m honest - but why then, did we even screw? i remember every single boy that has made me feel vulnerable, few. and boys have a sixth sense for that. and i can’t fake it when i’m nervous. i’ve always feared the ones that responded well. if you like me, don’t be nice to me. even if i demand it of you. i remember you spat in my eye two hours after kissing my cheek. i remember waking up and dressing. i remember glancing at you, disgusted, as you paid the driver to take me home, deciding resolutely that i would never see you again. but never, never regretting, because i don’t really have the capacity for that.
The sweetest person said “one day you’ll find someone who won’t make you jealous”
Please don’t switch the light on until it’s pitch black outside. I can handle the dark if we’re touching.
I glance at the white curtain hanging at my window, my failing eyesight focuses on the pretty ripples that billow like smoke. Your apprehension to answer my question, your endearing failure to realise I just don’t care about who you share your heart or body with anymore. Thats not why I’m asking. I’m just testing myself.
When I stop wanting to know your secrets and everything there is to know about you, when I stop feeling jealous, when I can stand to hear about the girls you’ve loved without feeling an emptiness in my gut, when I want to know what you did that night with her, when I berate you for flirting with me when someone is trying to fall in love with you: is the moment you know I’ve stopped caring. And I don’t really mind that she got you, because she’s not pretty. In times like these, the knowledge of that simply has to suffice.
