He has galaxies hidden in his chest

And a big sun dripping down his chin.

His worries mixed in his memories from last night.

A big mess in his brain.

Let me choose the next song, let me put your memories on a shelf and your worries in a box,

hide it somewhere you can’t find. At least for tonight.

You’re mine. You are mine.

Tell me that time I was bored of the day

And you made the sun go away.

Read me the story where you pulled a star from the sky

to feed the hedgehog we found in the backyard.

I’ll find a happier song next time, just tell me that time you made it snow on kids living in a desert. Tell me how they danced raising their little hands to the sky.

You’re no god, you're no miracle.

You just carry the galaxy in your chest.

And sunken ships, lullabies in your eyes.

Drunk nights in your hands.

Your hands.

Clasped in mine while your lips are between my legs.

I’m not sorry if I’m holding them a bit too tight.

You still have some snow on your fingertips,

And stars around your wrists.

It's no lie that I live in your galaxy.

You’re no miracle, you just happen to make me laugh.

Tell me, do trees ever sleep?

How do you write songs?

How come riches are so rich?

Tell me all of it.

I’m never bored, never bored.

Tell me how to save the world.

Tell me how to rule a kingdom.

I’ll listen. I’ll forget but I’ll listen, just talk to me.

One more cigarette, one more sip.

I’m never bored.

Today I lost a war,

A war I had no control over.

I thought it wasn't my war,

In the end it was a war I couldn't control.

I thought it wouldn't come near me.

Now I feel it in my bones.

Sometimes you do everything right but you still lose.

Today I took a picture and it reminded me a surgery I had when I was 8.

Then a car crash, it's right in my upper lip, I can feel it when I press my tongue on it.

Bodies don't lie, they carry everything.

But do memories lie?

Will I forget the faces of monsters laughing at me?

Will I forget feeling defeated?

I never loved History books. But I loved Art History books.

Because they build, they create, they think.

I still don't like History books.

I don't like watching them being written either.

It's not fun. It's painful. You're locked up in the pages, stuck in letters.

I'd like an Art History book where they don't knock things down.

Where crazy things happen but not really.

I'll take the Duchamp. I promise I'll learn to love it.

I'll give a real madness instead. Live from the history book, not even written yet.

Here, explain that to me. And I'll tell you about Duchamp.

Take me from that book, from that chapter.

Put me in an Art History book.

Any century, any -ism.

Take me to a museum, make me forget.

I sipped my tea. He told me teas were boring, still glad it wasn't in a paper cup.

He stood very close to me, traced his finger on my face, from my forehead to my chin. When a man takes his time touching me, it makes me crawl inside, I remember all the men who touched me. When his finger stopped on my lips, I could only think about his bedside table and the light coming from the living room. His bedside table with my jewellery on it, shining, ready to be put on in 1-2 hours. With my beer on it. With my dignity on it, that's how I get in this bed each time.

I have rules. I do have rules. I fucking love my rules so I can fucking break them and feel my lower lip curl while I do. Shame and eagerness. My kryptonite. That slight pain between my legs, it won't go away until you force it out of me. Shame and the numbing, soul crushing need. Every second, it makes me want to sulk, protest and cum. I don't want to figure it out.

I sipped more tea, this is boring. Please, please leave. Without me. I can't walk your street today, supermarket on the left, a cafe on the right. I can't stand to know what he sees in me. How he knows how he makes me feel. I can't stand that I hate him yet I know his street better than mine. Guide me back to myself. Teach me how to be. One slap at a time, one push at a time.

Please, one more song, I promise I'll behave. Let me lose myself. I don't care who sees, I don't care who judges. I unleashed my monsters. Take your pride and take your dignity. Give me filth. I wipe my feet on your princess dresses, I swear to god, I will. Let me finish my tea first.

It hurts when you realise you don't want him anymore. You want to want because you're used to him, you like him, he's a great person... You can have a hundred reasons to want to want him again but it's not gonna happen.

Everything you hate doing, feelings you don't want to face, conversations you don't want to have ... mowing the lawn, unloading the dishes. You hate doing it until you actually start doing it. You hate the idea of breaking up with someone until you do it. Then a month spent skipping all the sad songs, trying to keep yourself busy. Laughter helps, sex helps. You can't let your guard down, stay strong. Stop thinking, focus. Yes, you're going home to none, to your silent home with plants and a loud TV. You'll do fine. No matter what happens, you'll always do fine.

Then, in the pitch darkness, a part of you feels free. I can buy a plane ticket right now, I can do anything I want. Relationships tie us down even if we don't realise. You're sweetly bound to a home, to a mortgage, to the animals you've adopted together, to the plans you've made. The food you need to finish before it goes bad, concert tickets bought months ago, laundry, when was the last time we visited the parents... They all tie you with the thinnest threads. You end up in a cacoon in no time. You find peace in it but you can't move your limbs.

The moment you let go, you feel like a cloud. Empty like a long silence. But free. Free like clouds. Imagine, you can do anything you want to. But still empty. For a long time, you'll make coffee for two and drink one.

When I see him, I want to say something but I'm never sure what. Something that makes us special. Something that will help me swallow the knot in my throat. I want to want to hold his hand, but I don't. There's nothing to say.

I want to want him.

I don't want him.

She came from where everything sparkled in darkest colours

Had curls bouncing, skirts twirling.

She craved brutality and her childhood cartoons.

She enjoyed the demands, ashamed how she expected so very less.

She hated the questions. Indecisive, she could stop the time if she could.

She could run away if she could.

Everything about him, reminded her a man she knew before all of this mess.

How it felt wrong to kneel in front of him and also, right.

Like she was scared of something but didn't know what.

Loving with harsh hands.

Tender with cruel words.

She had things to unlearn, a body to explore.

She enjoyed being scared and how it felt wrong. She couldn't explain it, ever.

There were magnolia trees in front of her mother's home

When she missed the smell, she listened to songs in her language.

She craved brutality and some days her curls weren't bouncing.

Ditched her childhood heroes way too early, skipped the sad songs.

She let feelings ruin her insides, for a couple of hours more.

For a couple of years more.

--

Years were fast and it smelled like magnolias when her skin was bruised,

All the pieces of guilt and shame running through her blood spilled out, made a mess.

He said "let them go, we'll make new ones"

He comes home always at the same time.
It sounds boring but it's the only ritual in my life that makes me feel content.

Always 20 past 6.
Never earlier, never later.

I don't have 24 hours in a day. I have the hours before 20 past 6 and the hours after 20 past 6. When his hands start touching me. And they never stop until he leaves. I count down the minutes until it's 6:20. And when it's time, I don't want it to end ever.

When I told him what I wanted to be for him, I could see the little smirk he's been hiding. I said "try me". "Try me, give me all the filth you can give." He inhaled my words like he's been waiting to hear that for years. He didn't need to say it back. All day, he's been staring at the clock waiting until it's time to unleash the devil. To reach to this place where he doesn't need to be ashamed of turning into a monster. To this little kingdom he runs. Where he's free to explore, expand, try and fail with no judgement.

The shame I feel when he appears at the door, that's the reason I never have words to say to him. Deep dark shame I feel when I remember how I'm treated like an animal each time he enters this door. And how I count hours waiting for him to do the same again. Every single day. Sometimes I remember those hours in the supermarket, in a meeting; my cheeks go red. I look down my cleavage remembering the things he did to my body. Every single thing he called me, echoes in my ears. "You can keep crying because it's not over yet, I'm not done with you." Pushing my shopping cart, red cheeks, sometimes I can still feel him in me.. focus on shopping... "You live to be slapped by me. Right, you little bitch?" I turn some music on to forget how I crave for him.

When I hear him opening the door, I swallow my words. I can't say a word to him. Ever. Like I haven't been working, laughing with others during lunch break, shopping, cooking, walking that day before 6:20. I want to forget my daily life, no, I want to forget how it felt to behave like a human being. No, no, I want to believe I've been waiting here, all day, until it's 20 past 6. I'm not the girl pushing the shopping cart... I exist for this.

He needs me trembling, dripping, melted and eager. And he always gets what he wants. I don't need him kind, he can save all the kind for work. Leave the kind outside. That's our secret agreement. Everyday when it's 20 past 6.

5-6 years ago, I used to live in a shitty apartment between unsteady relationships and working. On the first floor, I had a tiny garden in the back surrounded by walls and other buildings. And a boyfriend who knew about gardening a little, he helped me make a little garden. Just flowers and some fruit trees. He kept saying there wasn't enough space for a tree but I wanted anyway. I wasn't even going to be there in a year or two. Until then, I wanted to grow something. When we broke up, I thanked him for the garden. He told me to take care of it.

I don't smoke. I never smoked in my life. But I loved going out to that garden every night. Being there made me feel alone but surrounded with people, just what I needed. I could hear early sleepers snoring, TV noises, teenagers yelling their parents, people having sex. In the weekends, I'd mostly hear the lady living upstairs reading words, repeating, trying to spell them right.

One Saturday morning, she threw the book to my garden while I was listening to music. She pointed a line in the book she held. I got up and took the book, a first grade reading exercise book. She was reading it to me, asking me if she was pronouncing the words correctly. I corrected some of the words. She kept reading, I kept reading back and correcting. She thanked me and said she needed to cook, she left the book with me.

Next weekend, I was reading in the garden when she asked me if we could read again. I said yes, she kept reading, I kept reading back. Then she asked me "Where is the boy?" Their balcony could see nothing but my garden, I wasn't surprised that she noticed there was a guy and now he was gone. I told her that he needed to go. She asked me my age and why I was alone. I said 27 but couldn't answer the other question. She smoked, she smoked all the time. She told me she never learned reading. Her family didn't bother sending her to school, she got married when she was 15, travelled to a big city she didn't know with a grumpy old husband. Already 2 kids when she was just 18. I had nothing to say when she asked me why I was alone. She never knew how being alone felt like. I'm sure she would've liked it. She gave me a piece of cake she baked.

Next weekend, we read more. She was getting much better. She asked me if the boy was coming back. Women like her, women like my mom, people in my culture... They're always worried about lonely women. They never want women to be alone. They never say it to you directly but they'll keep asking. They'll never ask if you're happy but they'll ask if you have a man, if you'll have a man. Or if you had a man. You can't be angry at them for worrying about you, for hiding "you're old, you should have a man before it's too late or none will have you" in their questions. I could almost hear that but I smiled, said he wasn't coming back and I was ok. I couldn't ask her if she was happy. This culture teaches you to smile and nod even if they rub salt in your wounds. You learn to love the ones who judge you. You become the master of smiling, nodding to their worried questions mixed with judgement and doing what you want to do. In the end, she didn't know any better.

Most weekends, we read together. In a few months, she started reading short stories. I gifted her a La Fontaine book, wrapped and put it in her basket when she gave me stuffed grape leaves. She would ask the same question in different ways. This time it was loneliness. She always said that they were upstairs if I needed anything. To her, I wasn't whole. I had missing parts and she was offering help for me to be whole. I said thank you, once again like a good single woman. She asked "Aren't you scared of being alone?"

I said "it's quiet."

I probably never watched the same cartoons and never heard the same jokes. We had different drinks, different nights spent in ecstasy, different monsters to be scared of, different breakfasts. People don't believe me but even the same belief systems work different in other places, places you don't even know they exist. The way you made certain things a joke, it's still on its baby steps for me, it still matters, don't ruin it for everyone...

We don't have shared histories, they aren't even similar. You'd be surprised if you found one thing similar. And yes I know, *this is what makes the world great.* Well, it's not entirely true. It also makes things difficult but I've never been into people who aren't up for a challenge.

I didn't do the things you did, didn't learn the things you learned but I haven't lived in a glass box. I'm not vain enough to tell them constantly, you'll have to trust that I did. And maybe I can't even tell, sometimes words fail me, you have no idea how it feels. There are a lot of things that are lost in translation, a whole life. Lots of bits that don't fit in, pushing them is useless and I refuse to push.

You have to focus on intentions.

You have to trust their silence.

She was on the balcony, sunset behind her. Sitting on the edge of the chair, like she'll leave in a minute. She had nowhere to go, at least for tonight. She took a sip and put the glass on the floor next to her feet. Her hair looked shiny resting delicately on her shoulders.

The weight of her breasts, the way they sat in her dress... And how they touch his chest when she's on top of him. How her nipples brush against his skin. While her red, needy lips reach for his mouth, kissing surrounded by her hair. Grabbing her waist, tangled in her hair, breathless.

Her hands, the same hands that explored his body countless times. One reaching down to pick up the glass and other rested on her knee. The way she touched her knee... Just like how she touches his leg when she's on her knees in front of him. Her soft touch and his rough handling, her delicate hair in his fist, forcing her head down, more, more.. While her hand still touches his leg softly. The way she stared into the glass.. She wasn't aware of the emptiness she could cause if she just left now.

She softly pushed her legs together to fit the glass between them. Her legs. When he sees her legs, he could only think of how she wraps them around him. Pulling him deeper, pulling him desperately because she wants more of him. She'd whimper and beg, push and pull, scream "no" and whisper "yes". Because she desperately wants more of him. He finds happiness in her fragile desperation.

She put the glass on her lip, took a last big sip of her drink closing her eyes. She opened her eyes like a different person. He could see her feet were cold from the way she put them on top of each other. You could tell a whole story between her bare shoulders and cold little toes. His favourite book.

"I ... don't ... dance really"

"I know..."

"I mean, it's not difficult to guess that about you."

"But ... you don't know me, I don't know you. I'll be gone from this city in less than 24 hours ... You can be anyone you want tonight."

He looked puzzled but smiled and said "let's eat first."

While we were having dinner, I took a long hard look at this man who agreed to not to be himself tonight. He was kind and fun, he was a good date, he was what you can expect from a date. But not what I wanted from a date that night...

After all the shots and drinks, I don't know which one of us was more embarrassed... Me for constantly rubbing my ass on his cock while dancing or him because that wasn't him at all and he was so good at not being himself...

There's a strange comfort in being with someone you have no obligation to. There's a strange satisfaction in going to the parking lot and sucking his cock on my knees. Being drunk just enough to know what you're doing but you just don't care. Getting fucked in the back of his car while he calls me a cheap whore. I could be a whore and he wouldn't know...

He shoved his fingers in my mouth telling me what a dirty slut I am for letting a stranger fuck me in the back of his car. Such a whore for turning him on all night rubbing my ass. It was my fault that my holes were gonna hurt for days. It was my fault that I turned him into an animal so he had to do this. I'm not scared of the truth. I'm turned on by the truth. And embarrassed that he knows how much truth turns me on. My dripping wet pussy, shaking legs and the noises... I give it away so easily.

Sun was going up when we were done. We laid down tired for a while then he drove me home, I didn't ask him to come up for breakfast, he didn't ask if I was going to visit again. It was too late to go back to the first hours of our date. We exposed way too much, we were two strangers who knew way too much about each other.

I deleted his number when I was on the plane but I could still remember the taste of his cum.