"I wanted you. I wanted you to tell me that you loved me... that you loved us - and that you would fix it," you said. So I drew up these plans committing to each sketched line with the same indelible pen I worked away with for us with in that room the sunlight never touches. But the ideas came from a single distance of how I once expected to feel, now no more, a perpendicular plane I cannot touch. All that remains is that stale scent that doesn't wash out in the morning. I think: I used to walk here with you and much cleaner lungs filled with hope and ambition. Kissing across our table in pitch black - "happy anniversary" and you said that you felt so lucky. I still dream of December. Now it's cocaine off dirty long black fingernails, then in girls' bathrooms, inner turmoil like bodies washed up on the sand in low-tide. Leave them there for the skin to recede and tighten, for bacteria to bloat and burst open with gangrene, purulence and cunts like sewers. Give them all to me. I will wait to be hit by a car and watch as they sew up my face into a permanently crooked smile. We broke up once, we broke up twice. We broke up three times, and still there seemed like there was nothing in it, the sense of ending. Like I don't know how to be, to fuck and get fucked up. Wolves mate for life, not the way we used to be, skin-encapsulated egos, monoamine theory, dharma and PVC culture. I didn't want to be here again, sewn up in the hospital bed waiting in a state of defensive, defenceless semi-wakefulness. After the first cut I began to think more of some chemicals as places, and in that state I wanted to surrender myself to everything (but I couldn't). Siphonophorae, seeding clouds, migraine auras and fortification patterns. As the light turned into sound, you became so ugly in your hurt. Distanced from my ego, I was fascinated by your colours and shapes, though on return I was still so content to just be yours. Years later, I'm sitting alone in a jazz café in front of the blind pianist, vapid eyes cornered with coagulated gunk seemingly staring into space, hitting chords in such beautifully all-seeing fashion. I turn to my left and there is a woman, smiling, illuminated in red light. And I am floored that life can be this wonderful. I think you should have been here, sharing this moment. We were supposed to be together. I was meant to be yours, but then she came and claimed me and made me hers. Oh, what I would give to care without frustration! So bitter, but finally here is a girl without scars. And I am the boy without a heart to love, and even less to tell the truth, begging dead skin to take though I have been sewn and sewn. Complacency again, standing at the edge of Ana's roof, I should've jumped and ran the way I used to run the morning after, slipping my clothes back on so quickly and quietly, hoping so dearly that the people I'd apparently changed my mind about wouldn't see or hear me clawing my way out of their kitchen or bathroom windows. Only I shouldn't have waited to see if it always turns out the same. Of course the charm always wears off somewhere between the first taste of vodka on their breath and hearing the birds sing. But I never feel the charm, I am so dead inside, so fucking dead in the first place, I just go along with everything. Blown by the wind as mother used to say. How funny that it can hurt to not care, guilt like gravity again, but I thought I never loved you! I don't have a womb of which to calculate its most receptive periods and so prevent heartache. It's just a giant ghost of floating whale skin in the absence of my chest. Constrict, void, whirlpool and rinse clean my filthy heart that feels so dead. Mid-coital daydreaming, of how they cut open her body and split her ribcage. But there are some in praise of slow science. A paradigm shift, it was a perfect day and this is shaping up to be the same. Lying in the sweltering heat, praying to lose the pallor. Wax poetic melting over an urn of ashes in a bucket of ice. Whatever. This is just the diary of a nobody. Daniel Johnson never found true love. And I? Did I have it and lose it? People are always speaking in platitudes, common tropes and clichés. You can never feel that way again because you only give your heart away once. But Genevieve, I remember our smoke ring courtship, my dry erase smiles on the canvas that I wiped clean to discomfort and disappointment as you lay your head in my lap. I would still kill myself to inaugurate an alternate reality in which I had made all I ever wanted to work for good with a woman less pretty, twenty years your senior and who I often wanted to throw myself off Beachy Head for after sex over. My heart belongs to no one, though the spinster has locked it away in a vat of acid, carbonised little black veins. Dragging on cigarettes to drag out the pain. I deserve to feel this way. These falsities are based on the starvation model of love. She wouldn't even share her teacup with me knowing where my mouth has been. I could still taste you the morning after. Heartless, if only I could leave you to become carrion ripped open, a single rose staked through your spilt-open chest, I would run back to her to torture myself again. Why did you have to kiss me? I feel so disgustingly free and enlightened. I will never be happy, my dreams tell me. In one my vanity height was so great that everything between the lowest bones in my ribcage and the chin crumpled like paper. But I don't believe any creator made me just to be their crash test dummy. "And I got used to having you around. But by then I knew things weren't the same for you," you said. And these words I carry with me. Will you still fuck me baby, even if I'm not pretty enough? I want your to teach me how to leave the morning after, respectful etiquette for adulterers and not breaking my ribs in the window frames. The fox population has no entitlement to love, yet bitter suites to incubi could probably have learnt all his moves, unrequited of an arse pushed into a sleeping groin I never learned first-hand, from today's free most-visited of sites. Give them violence, and a rope, and blurred lines to take what is "wanted". What happens off screen at Kink is a whole other story, the mental hygiene festering vomit cumdumpster squalor fucks ruined in their two-minute remixes. Director's cut, anybody? Oh, they came before mommy could even sink her claws into the thing. Shame, slit wrists, bleach. God's purity. Fuck him. Fuck everyone. I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want to have ever been a part of this. Determinist causality: I am too committed. Besides, suicide would be too random for the absurdists. So thank you God, thank you God for your sexism, racism, and slavery. For your selfishness and greed, brain-damaged Charlie, failed by Great Ormond Street, throw another tantrum again. Let the whole world go to war, or forgo it all with black market cyanide in the water reserves. We can all have one final dance together, just like those fucking hippy cunts wanted. Parasitic manipulation hypothesis. Blind faith for the justification of doing wrong, at least mail order abortion pills exist, shitting cunt gore, every undeveloped foetus and afterbirth like Tesco value plum tomatoes into clear mason jars of formaldehyde, backlit in the broom closet to discipline Adam and Eve mark 2.0. A new race, the last one ruined itself with its curiosity and logic, and straying from God. They laughed, but it's obvious that the correlations between lower intelligence, self-esteem, self-respect and religiousness were more tests from our lord, just like the 'fossils' were. Carbon-14 dating, no. We will arrange all our marriages from now on. Priscilla with the scoliotic back will have to be locked away, spend her life hulling strawberries like it's the 1940s again. Countries are supposed to be poor, supposed to suffer. That's why we need God. It's training the soul for the afterlife. I understand, see? I surrender. No did mean never, Chuck, to the darker fruits of pleasure. Sow your seed. Reap the blood harvest. Acid rain spitting piss down a duck's back as they procreate through gang rape. How liberating. Penance is cleansing. More capacity for tangled circuitry, mental illness and prophetic visions. Exclusions in the dictionary from delusions. It's not political correctness gone mad. You wouldn't understand, I'll tell you when you're older why it drips like that – because you're a fucking filth pig daddy! Chop the fucking wilted prune off. Oh, the apathy of reason, the self-delusion of oversimplification. The dissident voices call for the normalisation of mental illness. Yes, you are now legally recognised as a six month old kitten, empress of the undiscovered constellations. To be desired, the heart of her desire? Pretty, pretentious. Pretty pretentious, glass cliffs and ceilings. Breaking scorched sinew, putrescent slime boy, salty sweet salubrity before the purging of salacity. Boys don't cry, they are just murdered after multiple deflorations, no sex change regret in the afterlife of forever trans, forever nothing. No phalloplasty, no skin grafted from the entire forearm, a thin transparency over the écorché of pumping blood and muscle and filth. But red is for ritual, bloodletting sacrifices. Your monthly bloodstains tattooed into my skin were so comforting underneath my sweltering shitcunt trash fashion. Rip off the testicles and burst them in your fists, teeth to tear away at flesh, popping satisfactorily. Remake the shapes within my bones again, a diadem of stars burns too brightly. Dull it down with base, like Catherine Sophia in 1827. Please be my disgrace partner, with love. "I never had anything like what I had with you." Now you don't. I say you never did. Ask Lorren what it was like to have me ejaculate in her mouth with pop music videos playing in sequence in the background. Frequency illusions, transubstantiation, recidivism, celerity. Gynocentrism. My own subjective social reality. Socialised egoism. That's all it is, more than I ever deserve, really. I am overstaying my welcome. Sorry life, matriculator, scorned deity, I will fashion my own exit to undo the concept of my own subjective reality, the one with all the metaphors and metaphysical nonsensical double standards rinsed through the flower print tablecloth . So to the beautiful Cassandra, I loved your fuck-up daughter very much. It won't always hurt like this. 'The Half-Life of Love is Forever' is another lie. These are disposable futures, for those non-determinists such as yourself. With libido-destrudo and fear of relapsed guilty dick syndrome, I never dared look through that window I last saw blue lights outside again. The paramedics hopefully never came back, but if so: Bury her fuck-me shoes with the idea of my genderless dream child, that shimmering amorphous cloud. And wish Windy Warrior a happy retirement in their true forever home, underneath a tree in some back garden. It's always the place for the most voiceless of dead friends. Thank you.