Personal Problems: 13th Account

N.B. This is the final instalment of Personal Problems. Go die somewhere.

She says “I love a good knobbin’”, “i love giving hand jobs” and he says “snorting through straws is cleaner.” I feel like Puff Daddy doing this through paper notes. I am a kid messing with things I shouldn’t be. The final hour’s upon me, never tell me not to do drugs, fall in love, or divorce men who don’t love me.

Dear Lymh,
It’s Lymh here. Tell me something so innately personal that it stops you from rubbing your heart against your exes’ faces’.
Try as you might, I’m the cumshot you can’t quite swallow. Because I taste so bitter.
I’m the carcass left from all the personal problems you’ve had, all the hate. All the wanting to split yourself into divisions, school bitches go here, school bastards go there.

I’ll go first, as I have always done.
And don’t try to respond to me.
Because my mouth runs harder.

I look at you in the mirror. Come over to my place, let’s Netflix n alienate ourselves. Let’s Netflix n kill ourselves.

The school kids on the coach experience Porn Fridays a 5th time now. We’re only hearing the moans of women being fingered till they are ghosts.

I don’t think I’m ready to love again.
Here my reflection pales and Dad blesses me over the phone.

I went to visit my ex once on the train out of loving him.
Upon arrival I noticed he had disappeared from his body. I turn the key in his heart to find he has already changed the locks, and this is where I fuck off from his life.

My mother believes I have changed and I am the alien in our house drowning in our genes. Maybe it is because we are actually more the same than ever.

I have left school and I don’t experience gastritis anymore because I don’t have to worry about my complexion in front of boys wearing tweed suits anymore. And I don’t have to care what the women think; they are consumed by compact mirrors and I was a half-soul at the time. I do not think about the girls from Year 9 anymore.

04.44. Adam emails you from Toronto and I am collapsing from lack of sleep, I can’t breathe without a dick inside my body. I have made mistakes this month, I have woken up in cold sweats and my heart is pedalling the ocean. This is a comedown from a relationship. This is a comedown for having too much of a bad thing. What a feeling.

Majid Jordan follows me into the night and Stone is focusing in on my collarbones. We are speaking French and I feel safe because nobody understands. Stone loves me, Stone is an important document which I am constantly saving, for fear he will disappear someday from my laptop, crashing with too many notes on file.

I am having my body complimented by horny horny men. You a horny girl. You a horny girl for me.
Look at this guy using you and you don’t care. You look at him and you think he’s a friend but really he’s the kind of weed that doesn’t get you high, so you waste all your money on cocaine.

You see all your personal problems Lymh?
You see all these white people going on gap years, you kinda wanna be them don’t you? You kinda wanna be a part of the privileged lot.
You kinda don’t wanna get spat on at Leeds train station by fascists, and be ashamed to call yourself Algerian because all the white people in the world will use it against you,

But you are white aren’t you? This is black and white is it not?

No. You’re the daughter of a Muslim and you reek of prayer mats, you free fall like a raindrop from terrorism. You’re the storm the media’s so scared of, but really they should be scared of themselves.

And you choose desperately ugly men because you’re so insecure. You’re so tired.

And your best friend thinks she is making a point, she won’t attempt to contact you to make a date to go out because she thinks you’re in the wrong about everything.
And the more time that passes by, the more time she thinks you don’t mean you’re sorry.

But really you’re tired of saying sorry, and you’re tired of her pretending that she’s never made a mistake and you look into your eyes to try and be brave. Staring yourself down.

And you’re sensitive and wrong and unsure. You want to be 5, you want to be 30.

And all of this is so public, so out-there for everybody to see. And you think there should be a point.
You’re not making a point.
You’re just putting yourself in danger.

And you know there’s a gravestone out there waiting for your name to be carved into it.

And you just don’t care when, you just hope people will still put flowers on it long after death.

And you see that’s it Lymh. You think it’s your turn now but it isn’t. It was never anybody’s. I just talk and you listen.

I am Lymh, the twisted. the hurt. the last kiss.
We had a personal problem together and just like that

I disappeared.

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