It’s your eyes.

You have these “I’m an open book but I have some hidden chapters eyes”. The “I’ll treat you right, but if you break my heart don’t think I won’t break yours too” eyes.

They were the first things that drew me to you. I was intrigued.

I felt an immediate connection with you. And you felt it too. Well you’ve told me you did. Unless you were lying.

Sometimes when you’re not looking, I like to gaze into them. I often wonder what you’re thinking. What makes you tick? What makes you do the things you do?

Whether you really love me? Whether you wish that I was someone else?

I question if there is something that you are hiding from me? If it’s something bad? Would I be able to forgive you? Would I move on? Or would it stay in my head, forever niggling at me?

Would I grow to resent you? Would I leave? Would you leave?

But then I look back into your eyes and I feel reassurance. I feel your arms reaching out for me. I feel safe.

Your eyes tell me all I need to know.

Your eyes make me happy.



I’m sure there is this rule out there that states that there has to be a balance to everything.

Like for every rich person there has to be a poor person and for every happy person there has to be a sad person.

Well I guess I’m destined to be the sad person, because no matter what I do in order to complete my mission of becoming happy, I can never quite get there.

I’m forever destined to feel sad, to feel depressed, to feel no self worth, to feel more than down in the dumps.

Because what else can it be? Why am I always so unhappy? Nothing ever seems to go right, I’m always on the 4 steps backward journey.

There has to be someone holding the strings above right?

Maybe I just need to find my opposite, get rid of them and then I’d be the happy one.

I’d finally be able to get off the bus of sadness.


I’ve reached the conclusion that I’m destined to be alone forever. That I’m meant to stay unloved.

I’ve been single for the best part of a decade. In that decade I have been on a numeral of zero dates.


What’s wrong with me? A question I find myself debating on a frequency.

Am I ugly? Am I too fat? Am I too dark? Am I boring?

What is it?

It saddens me because all I want to do is love and be loved. Is that such a big ask?

The more time goes on, the more alone I grow.

I’ve become a cynic. I glare at couples on the street and pass secret judgement on them when the express displays of affection. I say it disgusts me, but truthfully I envy them.

I want someone to hold onto my hand like it’s their lifeline. I want someone to kiss me, graze my neck, stare deeply into my eyes. I want some one to tell me that they love me.

Why am so I unlovable? Why am I the one still on the shelf? Why am I the one that no one wants?

Why am I destined to be alone? My heart spills over with so much love, but there’s no one to receive it.

I feel empty, lost… I don’t feel whole.

What is wrong with… me?


It dawned on me, this was the end of everything I had ever known. The person that I had been, the person that I was, would be changed forever.

I was terrified. All I wanted to do was get up and leave, but my feet were rooted to the floor.

I had been looking forward to this for months. Planning it over and over in my head for years.

But now as the hours counted down, as the minutes and seconds ticked by, the more scared I became.

I wasn’t ready. I needed more time.

My heart pounded against my chest.

Soon they would come for me. They would come and it would be too late.

I had to make my escape.

I pulled my dressing gown around me and walked towards the door.

As my hand reached out for the handle, it stopped mid air.

An image of his face flashed before me. Memories of the love that we had, the promises that we had made to each other.

I couldn’t do this to him. I loved him to much.

I walked back over to the chair and sat down and waited on my future.


Paul slid the plate down in front on me.

“Eat,” he said in his gruff voice.

I looked up at him. The look of hatred beaming out of my eyes.

“No,” I replied.

“Eat,” he said again. His voice rising.

“No,” I replied again. Trying to match the serve he had just presented me.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me.

I locked eyes with him and reached out for the plate.

A winning smile gleaned over his lips.

I tipped the plate over. It’s contents slipping onto the carpet. His prized carpet, the carpet that meant more to him than anything.

I returned his smile.

He leapt over to me and slapped me hard across my face. The force was so strong that he knocked me out of my seat.

My face landed right into the brown puddle of gravy and potatoes.

“Eat,” he said again. His frame looming over me.

I opened my mouth to say no again, but his hand came behind the back of my neck and he smashed my face into the food.

“Eat,” he roared at me.

I could feel the tears burning in the corner of my eyes.

So I did what he asked, I complied.

I lay on the floor, refusing to cry and ate the roast dinner off the carpet.

Bits of lint and dirt coated the roast beef and potatoes, but I ate every morsel.

With every bite I took, I plotted how I was going to end him, how I would kill him. I would be the winner in this showdown, not him.


Tyrone led me over to the sofa and I sat down. The red leather sticking to my thighs.

I hated leather seats. I hated how all guys seemed to have them in their ‘bachelor pads’. They thought it made them look cool. To me it just oozed high levels of pretentious douche.

Tyrone popped open another bottle of champagne and poured me a glass.

I took it willingly and began to sip.

He flashed his smile again. I felt the acid in my stomach begin to bubble.

Tyrone’s non champagne glass holding hand found its way to my thigh and slowly began to snake its way up.

I wanted to bat his hand away. To pick up a match and set it on fire. But I didn’t, I let him continue.

He placed his champagne glass down and then took mine.

Snaking his hands around my waist he moved me onto his lap.

The smell of his expensive yet disgusting smelling cologne hit me hard and I did everything in my power not to gag.

He moved his lips towards my ears and I felt his hot breathe tickle my neck.

“I want you so bad Crystal,” he whispered. Desire dripping off his words.

I said nothing.

He pressed his lips onto my skin and I felt the moisture, as he left saliva trails along my neck.

I closed my eyes and did what I always did. I imagined that I was really with my Hollywood crush. I imagined that the kisses that Tryone was painting on my skin, were really kisses from him.

I imagined that it was my Hollywood crush that I was preforming a slow strip tease for, when Tyrone told me to take off all my clothes. I imagined that it was my Hollywood crush that was making sweet passionate love to me, when Tyrone demanded I got on all fours, but left my heels on.

I stopped imagining when it was all over. When Tyrone rolled off of me and handed me a wad of rolled up £20 notes and told me to fuck off.

The fantasy was well and truly over for both of us.


For the longest time I never felt like I was pretty enough.

I wasn’t pretty enough to hang with the cool kids, I wasn’t pretty enough to get a boyfriend, I wasn’t pretty enough to get my dream job, I wasn’t pretty enough to have the life I craved so much.

Pretty was an obstacle to me.

I believed that all I had to do was change something about myself and then I’d be good enough. I’d make the grade. I’d be passable to the majority.

But no matter what I did in order to ‘improve’ myself, the insecurities still remained.

It wasn’t until I looked deep down inside of myself that I realised that I am good enough. I don’t have to prove myself to anyone. The only person that I have to impress is myself and as long as I love myself, and I treat myself like the queen that I am, I will go as far as I want.


I am not alone.

I am more than just me.

I carry the stories of all those who came before me.

I carry their wisdom, I carry their history, and I carry their essence.

When ever I get down or feel more than alone I try to remember this. I try to remember that I’m not alone that it’s not just me. That I am greatness.

But if I know all of this, why do I feel helpless all the time? Why do I feel less than human? Why do I have days when I don’t want to get out of bed? Why do I feel sadness? Why do I feel lost?

If I carry all of this baggage around inside of me, then why do all these questions bounce around inside of my head?

I wish that I could stop the negativity. That I could live in a bubble of positivity all the time, but it’s hard.

It’s so hard.

Life is hard.

But if it was easy, would their be any point living?

Too many questions.

I want to dash them away.

Throw them so far that I never have to hear them again. Never have to think about them, ponder on them. Thirst for the answers to them.

I just want to lie here in silence. Embrace the quiet.

But I know no matter how far I throw them, they will always find their way back.

So I’m stuck with them.

I’m stuck with the buzzing noise of questions.


The mould curled its way up the wall and ended on the ceiling.

Tiny spirals of blue, black and green, dotted the former eggshell white wall.

Charlie was pretty sure that she had inhaled the spores whilst she was asleep.

All she wanted to do was to paint over it. Allowing the wall to have some form of pride again. But she knew it wouldn’t work, the mould would find some way to break free again.

Lying back on her bed, Charlie began to count the dots on the ceiling.

She was tired. Bored. All the negative words one could associate with having nothing to do.

She was a bird with clipped wings. Her soul belonged outside, alongside the clouds and the bees. She was meant to be free, not cooped up in small room like a caged hen.

What had she accomplished for the day? Nothing. Just a completed tv series and that was nothing to be proud of.

Her thoughts turned to her phone, pictures and videos of people living out their lives trapped inside.

Her mind willed her fingers to pick it up, to allow her to escape into someone else’s life. But her fingers resisted and the phone remained where it was.

Unread books lay at the side of her bed, books that would remain untouched. Pages that would remain unturned. Words that would remain unread.

Getting up, she slouched over to the window and watched a train as it passed by. She looked on in envy at the passengers that were making their way home.

How she envied them. They had a purpose, a reason to live. Her purpose had long ago burned out, like a candle flame.

She didn’t want to cry anymore. The tears weren’t worth the pain.


I stared at the blank wall, that reflected the expression that had also been painted on my face for the past 30 minutes.

What was I going to do?

I could stay here and fight, or I could leave?

The pain rose in my chest and I made my decision, I was going to leave. I didn’t want to be part of this anymore. This was not my fight. I didn’t have to be here.

I ran to the closet grabbing my weekend bag and began to grab clothes off the rail. I rooted through the chest of drawers for underwear and socks. When the bag was almost bursting I zipped it up.

The rain had since stopped and there was a faint glow from the sun, peaking through the departing clouds.

This was my chance. I should leave now.

But my feet wouldn’t move. It was as if they had rooted themselves to the carpet.

My brain willed them on. This was my only window of chance. The only opportunity I had to leave. If I didn’t go now, I didn’t know when my next chance would be.

Fight or flight. Fight or flight.

I started to move towards the bedroom door.

The sound of keys stopped me in my tracks.

It was too late.

Sighing I emptied my weekend bag and returned my clothes.

Next time I would go, nothing would stop me.

The words that had become my mantra for the past few years.