When I was younger, I wanted to be a writer.

It was the future career I dreamed of.

And when I say "when I was younger",

What I really mean is a few years ago.

Until I decided that wasn't attainable because of... Well, low self-esteem and an utter lack of faith in myself.

I've been writing fanfiction for the past six years, maybe?

And I have gotten better.

I went from writing maybe four hundred words per chapter to thousands.

I've even made some of my readers cry.

But being published is on another level entirely, isn't it?

And I don't feel deserving.

I know how important books were to me through my life, especially my childhood.

I was all alone.

They gave me a second life, one that felt so much more freeing than the one I was in.

My imagination and the magic of Enid Blyton introduced me to a world I had never known possible.

Fairies and pixies, midnight feasts and mystery-solving child detectives.

I understand what the power of a book can do to someone.

But I still don't have much faith in my abilities.

I know I could, I just...

I'm not ready, yet.

Might never be.

I have however long my life is to figure it out.

Publishing to me would be good and bad, like most things in life.

On one hand;

A testimony to myself.

Look at you, you wrote a book that you poured yourself into and you dared to hope it was good enough that people would pay you for it!

What a rockstar.

But knowing me...

I'd end up anxious and impatient and waiting to be proved right.

Rejected.

A failure.

Et cetera.

Ah well.

Maybe some day.

No rush.

It will be as it will be.

I don't know what's wrong.

Nothing. Nothing is. That's the fucking problem.

Why is that? What's wrong with a little peace?

Do you not remember what happened last year? What's been happening the past rwo- the past half a dozen- the past-

I get it. Life has been... Difficult. Right?

I'm not doing enough. Something will happen. I'm sure of it. I'm going to get hurt. I can do so much to protect us but I can't stop the world, I can't control other people, someone somewhere something is going to go wrong and we'll get hurt once again and I can't live through that anymore, I don't want to, I just can't.

Is this... What you're worried about? A future we cannot predict? Choices we cannot make or change, whether it be ours or another person's?

Well... Aren't you?

I don't care enough to be.

You and I both know what apathy has cost us.

Yes, yes, we were so depressed we hardly got out of bed. Big whoop.

Don't you... Isn't that at all traumatising? Don't you still feel the shame and guilt you hid underneath?

...no? I let it all go. I stopped giving a fuck. It's been nice to just... Not care. I realised that... The future is untouchable. And yes. It'll probably be shit, based on my track record. I'm just going to avoid human contact as much as possible, go for class as much as I am able, try to ignore the fact that I have a period that feels wrong in my body and try to get tf out of this homophobic country. Or die trying. Those are the two options. Even when I gave up, I hadn't exactly given up. I was still alive. We were still alive.

I'm terrified. I'm constantly terrified.

You're not. But I do know you're scared. I'm you, am I not? Your madness is mine. Your suffering is mine. And no matter how much we've forgotten, glimpses always remain. I know it's been hard. I know you're worried about how much worse it could possibly get. I just... Want you to know that I'm here. And whatever happens, as long as we don't die and all, I still will be here. Give me a chance to get us through this. I need you to trust me. To trust in yourself and all we've survived through. I know you think your life is nothing, that you're such a crybaby for feeling the normal human emotion that is sadness... I know how upset you are with me for the things I've said and done. I can't change the past. I can't see the future. I can't promise you perfection. But I can promise you that this is our relationship, love. That I've been with you from the very beginning. I was formed and shaped with you. You see yourself as nothing but you are all there is in my eyes. No one could love you more. No one.

I seem to remember a time when you felt the opposite...

I'm changing. Little by little. It makes more sense to stop treating you like shit, honestly. I'm tired of comparing us to the rest of the world. They're just as fucked up and tired as we are, ha. That's the scary thing. Humans are all good and bad. There is no black, no white. Only gray. It won't be the easiest thing in the world but I want to be alive with you. Watch movies with you. Eat with you. Have wine with you. Write stupid shit like this with you, things that come right from somewhere deep within us, things that make us feel... Something. Gift me the kindness of sticking around with me. There's so many things we could still see. So many things I want to experience with you, fuck everybody else.

...well. I do want to watch the second season of Heartstopper... And finish that one book.

Attagem. Let's do that. I'll be by your side every step of the way. So no, you're not alone. Okay?

Yeah... Good talk, self.

Good talk. Say bye to the reader, we've gotta go wipe our ears man. Bathing gets em all wet and icky- anddddd that's a TMI right there. Yup.

Bye, reader human person alien individual of coolness! Have a good day or night or whaddever. I'm gonna try to umm... Not completely freak out about existing today <3

Generators.

If there is no electricity from the government, you'll hear them in every neighbourhood,

Many of the small shops,

Because electricity is life, right?

I'm too sensitive in hearing to live in a country like Nigeria.

My body is too un-fond of loudness to be forced to hear this repeated buzzing -

Angry buzzing of a mechanical, dog-sized bee.

It's a cry in a barren desert filled with nothing but scarcity.

An attempt to do better, be better than our leaders.

An act of self-reliance and yet we pay them for electricity anyway

The money bleeds from pockets,

Fuel prices get higher,

They give us next to nothing for the price of much.

I wonder what our ancestors would say if they could see us.

I suppose it depends on which one.

Humans are an enigma.

Perhaps some would count us lucky.

Our smart phones, our smart watches, our ingenious machines.

The fans and the acs and the coolers, all designed to subvert the conditions of a sweltering climate.

I think if I was one of them, I would laugh

At the brilliant tech designs of our age -

Ask what it means to have these magical boxes of so-called goodwill

When the British still rob us of our resources - with the Chinese and the Americans and the French and Lucifer knows what else.

O Africa, my Africa my ass.

Look who we were before colonialism.

As with PTSD, there is a before and an after

And I am afraid we will never be able to recover that person.

The body is weak, its inhabitants are too tired to be angry and too angry to allow themselves rest

Madness is as common as it is hidden

The world is in flames, even for our exploiters, past and present.

We kill our planet,

Pollute our world with noise and fumes,

Desperate upon desperate to live on

The cost bleeds us dry

But we force ourselves to carry the burden our leaders only increase

As long as we have our tvs and acs and fans and pretty fluorescent lights.

They help us to forget and who would deny themselves memory loss in times such as these?

The generators purr on.

Our ancestors watch, silent, shaken.

I suppose they might not laugh, after all.

I think they would weep.

I'm terrified to think about it.

But I read a book that brought back the memory

So here I am.

I don't think it was always that loud.

The silence, I mean.

I'm more than used to its influence over me.

I spent so much of my childhood alone, myself and my teddy bears as company.

It's an important part of my existence; quiet.

It melds with me even now, helps me to anchor myself - sometimes.

But that day...

I understand now what they say

About silence becoming violence

When all you want to do is scream

And you can't.

I think the scariest part is that no one made me silent.

No one cut out my tongue or sewed my lips shut

I am terrified because I could have said something.

Anything.

And I did.

I tried...

But I should have done more.

I should have screamed.

I should have allowed myself to be afraid enough that I screamed for help

But I told myself I had to apply decorum.

I had to be good.

Stay quiet and let things lie,

It's the right thing to do.

And now...

I have the memory forever.

When silence turned against me.

When my desire to be good enough once again ripped me apart.

With disdain I write this,

Wondering how you could have seen me shaking and heard my soft, desperate pleading

And ignored it all.

You walked away.

You're fine.

But a piece of me died that day,

In the quiet of that bathroom floor.

I just want to be rid of the memory.

I should have screamed.

Under the blood red of the moon, I am faced with my prey. I can vaguely remember her screams. The hissed glory of pain when she clawed my skin, desperate for freedom as I held her so close her very lungs collapsed from all the pressure. You did say you like some aggression to your lover, didn't you?

It's dark, out. There's no one around for miles. I dragged you here to end you. I did. From my car. Didn't I? It's all so hazy. There's a ringing in my ears as I straddle your still hips, frozen, waiting for a response. Waiting for my brain to tell me what to do next.

But I already know what's coming. It won't be pretty.

I vaguely remember the feeling of a period as I begin to claw my way - in turn - into you. I can remember the way it takes over my body, consumes me in irritation and discomfort. The way it feels incorrect. I suppose your presence on this Earth felt as wrong to me as this same thing. Perhaps the moon is the colour of my hands, tonight, because it was fated so. A guiding light from a friend I cannot see.

My hands tremble as I dig past your skin. You were always so thin, so pretty despite how harsh and cold you were (you're the most frigid you've ever been now). So this isn't as hard as it should be. My hands are screaming from the exertion but I won't stop digging. Past skin and muscle and bone. It feels akin to ripping apart a nice, big chunk of celebratory roast chicken. It feels just as satisfying when I finally make it to your heart.

I'm covered in blood, now. It's yours. I almost feel like I must be drowning in it. It makes me think of you, triggering utter disgust, until I realise it is only a kind reminder that you are gone now. Defeated. Usurped. Literally beneath me and soon to be even deeper under if I have anything to say about it.

I gaze silently upon my masterpiece as I finally find the organ I've been looking for beneath broken pieces of your bone, muscle fibers set aside. You look like you've been feasted upon by a wild animal. And this gives me an idea - albeit a strange one. Still. Giving into my desires has led me here and I won't deny myself my piece of madness now that it has finally begun.

Carefully, I reach into the cavity beyond all your ruined layers. Your heart sits quiet and wet in my open palms. If I concentrate, I can almost feel the dead, empty thing throbbing within you. I can imagine what would have happened if I let myself do this sooner. If I had just let it all go.

The stars wink down at me. I take in a deep breath. The field is humid from rain. It mingles with the earth's pastoral scent, mingles with the tangy iron of your blood, sends delighted shivers down my spine. Oh, you... If only you could see this. If only you could know what your cruelty would help me... Become.

My gaze returns to your heart. Without another moment of hesitation, I bite down on it. It tastes as raw meat should. Yet, I am met with a sweetness because of what I have done to earn it. The texture dances around my tongue and I find myself wanting to throw up the spongy substance. I don't. I swallow. I slip it into a zip lock bag, too. Perhaps it'll serve me better cooked. Giving into primal urges was certainly exciting but I still retain some of my civility, I assure you.

You stare at me, your eyes widened with the fear of a dead woman. I wonder if you saw the fear in mine when you did what you did. I wonder if it would have mattered to you at all, either way. If knowing how terrified I was would have changed anything. I guess we'll never know.

Well? Am I as dirty as you remembered? As disgusting? Did you loathe me as much while I stole away your every last breath as you did when you and I were in that room, together? I suppose it doesn't matter, now. You're a corpse, ruined beyond recognition. I'll grind your pretty face into a paste too, just for the laughs of it. You will be buried alongside whatever stone I choose.

And you will be forgotten.

Don't worry too much about your heart. I'll take very precious care of it. You never had one, anyway.

The hardest decision I ever mad was trying to live.

Let me try to set the scene.

I go off to university to get the law degree my parents want and make them proud.

I... Flounder.

I struggle.

I spend every day hardly getting out of bed and wanting to kill myself.

I've felt this way before.

It's never been this bad before.

Why is it this bad now?

What changed?

My parents find out because I can't lie when they ask me whether I've eaten or bathed or gone to class.

They throw daggers at my face through the screen of my phone.

I am left alone with nothing but their criticism.

But it's fine.

It's my fault, after all.

I must get up.

I must be normal, again.

Good enough.

I must, I must, I must.

One year, two.

It's been... Hard.

Harder than it ever was.

External shame comes when you feel you aren't doing enough for you to be socially acceptable

Internal shame is... Real.

It isn't from them.

It's your mind, body and soul screaming at you to set yourself free.

It won't go away unless you do something about it.

But I'm terrified.

Fear has wrapped its icy hands around my throat and drowned me in a pool of apathy.

It's so much, so overwhelming that I must numb myself.

I hardly exist.

My grades get worse but I constantly promise myself it will be better next time, next time, next time, soon, soon, just keep swimming..

There is a moment.

There is always a buildup before the main event.

But this is the time that changes everything.

I watch a show, rotting away on my bed in my room.

A character I care about kills herself in the finale.

My breath catches and I realise

I can't keep living like this.

I can't keep...

Living my entire life waiting to die.

Hoping for it.

Pleading with the gods like a drunken, ruined fool to take this thing they call a gift from me.

Steal away my soul and leave this shell and this pain and these horrid, horrid memories behind.

I am terrified to spend my life this way.

So...

I make a change.

It's the most terrifying thing I've done thus far.

Because I actually did it, I suppose, not just whispering it in my head.

I left the university.

I left the course.

I resolved to go somewhere new.

If I am going to live and die experiencing the good and bad of being a human being,

I deserve the kindness of wanting to be alive, don't I?

At least a little bit.

I think we all deserve some self-compassion, don't you?

The external shame tries to drown out the internal one.

How dare I?

They'll laugh at you.

You're an embarrassment and disgrace.

Who do you think you are?

But the internal shame is my self.

I don't know which.

All of us?

Past; the inner child.

Present; breathing and broken.

Future; unknown.

It's all of us.

It is me as I was and am and will be, begging for a second chance.

Fear has had so much control over my life...

I wanted to be free of his cage, even just for a moment.

He comes back, of course.

I suppose he always will.

But I remember that moment.

The moment it clicked that I do not have to put myself through torture to make another happy.

Because they don't care as much as I think they do, anyway.

And I know I made the right choice.

So we'll continue to dance together, Fear and I.

But somewhere...

Else.

I got so used to the suffocation of familiar that I was ready to dissolve myself for it.

There are better ways to drown.

I just watched a woman explain something as if...

As if she was dancing,

Her tongue pure fluid,

Her lips curved just right.

I think I have too many feelings about this thing called humanity.

Oh God, I don't think I could be so amazed by anything else.

We are such a surprising, confusing species.

I don't think I've ever feared or hated anything more, either.

Just as I am amazed by and surprised by and feared by and hated by myself.

All things being equal, the interior and exterior align.

I don't know science but I know my mind...

Somewhat.

How we choose to hate each other and hate ourselves, I can never understand.

How people are capable of such acts of cruelty...

Everyone of us.

I know because I used to try to be the holiest of holies.

I know because pain and brokenness I thought beyond repair led me to daydream about killing people.

For fun, I said.

As it turns out, it wasn't brokenness.

I only told myself there was no other possibility.

It went like this; you must be tall and slim and hyper pretty and perfectly obedient and a lawyer and a Christian and straight or you are nothing.

So see, I wasn't broken, not in the way I believed.

What was is the fact that I believed any of that.

Guess what, you bastard of a world?

I am fat and lazy and absolutely silly about the dumbest things.

I like cats and witches and women and no, I do not want to make a baby for you and give you a fancy degree to rot away on your shelf and a body rhat isn't mine.

I am me.

Still shattered enough to believe in some of your bullshit.

Still picking up the pieces of me and reassuring myself that I never had to hate one single shard of my identity - of my fucking existence as it has become - ever again.

I'm learning, you see?

And some day...

I hope I'm a little wiser.

I think I get a little less afraid every year.

At my pace.

Some day you will mean nothing to me but smoke with no flame.

Barely perceived by my ears and eyes, too damn weak to leave even the smallest mark.

Maybe then, it'll all make sense.

Give or take, I'll still be alive and kicking

I wonder who I will be then

But the me of now isn't too bad either.

We're finally learning to co-exist.

Being stuck with each other wasn't as bad as we once believed.

I was never under any delusion that I had any power over my words.

It's teamwork in a sense

But not in the normal way one might think.

I am only a vessel; a channel between

The world they live in and the one in which I reside.

I am the only link they have from their infinity to the page to our infinity once again

And I might feel pride to say it is I that plucks them out of nothing

One by one

To spin into magic.

But I would be lying.

Even now,

The words only apparate into my mind and travel to my fingertips;

I am letting them do as they sowish.

My fingers only bring them to this reality but

I hardly begin to think them before another and another appear.

So no.

I've never been the one in charge.

I wouldn't want to be.

It's a lot more fun when you have no idea what you're running towards -

The tricky part is giving yourself the permission to simply let go.