I move my cursor to the top right of my screen…”write“, it says. I click on it as it’s too enticing not to.
It’s Sunday and for the first time in months, I haven’t got any work to do. It’s weird. I love my job. I am writer. It sounds so lovely to say even lovelier to say out loud. I work seven days a week. I told myself today would be all about reading poetry and relaxing, but in all honesty—I am so fucking bored.
I did read poetry, dark poetry—Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur. Her poetry is so simple, like anyone could have written it. But at the same time, it has an effect on me. Her words don’t need to be deciphered, twisted, and analysed like the long and strange poetry we were forced to read in high school. They’re straightforward, and true. Perhaps that is why they have an effect on me… that and her brave account of how badly men have treated her.
I’m home in South Africa for now, and I have almost no stress at all. It’s weird. I sit beside the ocean and write. I hear the stillness of the night, I breathe fresh air, I feel the sun on my skin. I feel reality. It’s now my business to know what everyone is getting up to in their lives—and while I couldn’t really care, it’s sometimes nice.
These are my thoughts as the day—and week—come to a close.
I remember a time when online dating was something to be embarrassed about. Now, we’re looking at young millennials using these platforms to find someone to love… for the night. But here is why I am not a girl who is up for “Netflix and Chill” as written to the future love of my life.
In a world that is driven by sex, I want you to be the guy that cares about me as a person. I don’t want to be deemed a body that you can use to gain pleasure. I want the pleasure to be both mutual and meaningful, when that time comes.
I want to meet you on a train. I want to meet you at a place that we call our favourite restaurant for decades to come. I want to meet you.
I want you to love me for my brains first and my appearance second. I want you to know that I like frangipani flowers and staring out at the rain. I want to know where you went to school and who your first kiss was.
I want to get angry at you for not folding the washing or forgetting to bring home onions on the way home from work. I want to be passionate with you when our bodies crave each other with familiarity and animal instincts.
I want to cry with you when you lose someone special and I want to hold your hand when I cross the street. I want to watch terrible films with you and laugh until my face hurts.
I want you to want me even though I have no interest in politics, science or maths. I want you to be open-minded when I want to try something new or go on an adventure. I will be understanding when you want to experience something new, too.
I don’t want to use degrading words in conversation with you. I don’t want to come over and visit you late at night, either. I am not a girl who is up for “Netflix and Chill”.
Your insides are rotten with maggots and decomposing filth. I know you. I’ve seen you. I’ve witnessed your fucking demon-like character and animalistic rage. You will always be nothing. I envision you with your mouth on the curb, only to have your face shattered by my foot and when that day comes, in reality or in my dream – I’ll let go of all of my hate.
Had you ever thought about why you love fall? The most amazing news to me is that the weather has cooled down and the leaves are changing colours every day into dazzling reds, oranges and eventually, brown. But had you thought about why you frolic in your beloved season? The fact that we find beauty in the leaves which are changing colours simply because they’re dying? And eventually, we’re left with a bare tree and cold weather which most of us can’t stand.