This is no modern romance

Imagine screaming at the top of your lungs in a fit of absolute desperation.
All you want is help.
Nay, you don't want it, you need it.
You've no clue how to get out of this alive. You can't do it on your own.
So you scream.
But nobody can hear you.
Your head is under water.

I have drowned.

Well, I have nearly drowned, if you want to get technical.

The chlorine burned in my lungs and the sun stung my eyes as I miraculously surfaced - on my own. Nobody has ever swam so hard as I did. Good thing, too. Nobody else was going to save me.

The sun and chlorine weren't the only things that stung my eyes.

I was crying.

And still nobody came.

I've never forgotten what it feels like to drown.

One Hundred

Usually framed by black acrylic, his eyes seem naked in contacts.
As much as I hate to admit it, he never needed corrective eyewear to see through me.

The gentle vibrations of his baritone whisper recite cryptic vulgarities that send shivers from the conch of my ear to the arch of my foot.

My skin crawls with lust and loathing.

I want to be far away from him, but his eyes, the eyes that always gave away his lies, keep me from walking away.

Without the distracting frames, it's easier to see inside.

His mind reads like the diary of a heartbroken teenage girl.

And as he stirs his morning coffee, a facsimile of my morning-after coffee, I tell him about you.

He laughs.

Not at me for loving you, but at you for thinking that me loving you was something to fear.

The art of extinguishing a cigarette

Aftershave and imagination.

That's what his sweater used to smell like.

I wear it like a hug, and I am okay.

He's not around anymore, but I keep his sweater safe.

It smells like me now.

Like stale cigarettes, spilt beer, and, if only faintly, nondescript tropical fruit.




A single sensual draw off of an already spent cigarettes.

burnt lips.

the calculated twist of her ankle, as the cherry dies delicately under her shoe.

a shoe that was designed only to be worn while her legs are in the air.

She heeds not such a warning.




I can't get the smell of your pipe tobacco out of my favourite towel, so I don't use it.

Dirty blonde with a kiss of ginger. You are the only one who loves my natural hair colour.

If I had any patience left, I might grow it out.

I lost it, trying to love you.

Instant gratification is readily available in a variety of colours.




I am perpetually dressed for a funeral.

You don't kiss a one-night-stand goodbye in the morning.

He watched me as a slid my miraculously unripped stockings back up my legs and slipped on last night's high heels, one by one.

What had I done, and, more importantly, where exactly was I?

I felt uneasy as I slipped my dress over my head, and even a little queasy as I scanned my purse and took a mental inventory, checking that I'd not lost anything.

He walked me to the door and I kissed him goodbye.

After we had been dating for some time, I told him that I had intended for us to be a one-night stand.

He said, "Veronica, you don't kiss a one-night-stand goodbye in the morning.", and that he knew he'd make me his.



He turned the light on while I nervously searched for my panties. I tried desperately to hide how embarrassed I was.

Regret and shame are not in my repertoire of feelings, but in this moment of vulnerability, I was closer to both than I'd been in ages.

New Order's 'Bizzare Love Triangle' plays in my head as I tiptoe towards the door and think dreadfully to myself, "This is how my last relationship started. Shit!"

I wanted to kiss him goodbye, but I wasn't going to, until he asked.

So I did; Twice.



I'm not a fan of the one-night-stand. I rarely have them, and when I do, they tend to turn in to something more. But, there is something to be said for a successful one-night-stand. As a female, in the best case scenario, you leave feeling empowered and fulfilled. Worst case: regretful, sore and potentially pregnant.

Sometimes, the single girl's only logical solution to emotional trauma is to seek out a superficial facsimile of what love can be.

I think, tonight, I'll wear what my friend, Dave, calls "Come Fuck Me" boots.

Open Letter to Someone You Don't Know

There are a lot of really nasty things I could say to you. And I want to, but I don't think it would be the first time someone called you any of the things I'm thinking. And I so passionately hate to be unoriginal.

If you hate drama so much, don't do maliciously selfish things that cause other people to react in dramatic ways.

Lucky for you, I have excellent impulse control and my reputation means more to me that hurting you ever could.