Wither

I ask everyone that will listen for advice. How to make someone listen, notice, understand. Ai can't grasp the dichotomy: do not manipulate people, it suggests.

The heart attaches not like flowers blossoming, rose-coloured tint, or butterflies shaking in the gut. Remember when we'd go to the beach, young, and dig our nails under crustaceans because dad told us they could be peeled off? They never broke. I was an angry soul, so when the digging and pulling failed and my nails were broken I'd take slate to the shell and start smashing. Still, they never broke. They are stronger than me.

It attaches like a sickness, leeching onto the world in my thoughts and not letting go. There is no control over when it will happen. When he leaves the table and our empty drinks to smoke and flirt with the girls outside, I beg my heart to take interest. It doesn't listen. The boy, the boy ten thousand miles away is more interesting. Its hooks are in the rock.

When we argue over how unrealistic it may or may not be not only to hotwire a bike, but to drive one through London back to the south in the midst of chaos. The heart perks up at this, turns an ear to listen. It can't not. The cage around it has been shaking so hard with laughter, it would be enough to garner anything's interest. I take a selfie in the mirror - maybe I don't mind the smoking I send.

Which would you pick, if you had the choice? Mum asks me on the steps. I think about our first kiss on our third date last week. I consider the boy who doesn't like me, who is sleeping around, who isn't ready for a relationship (the with me is silent). I pick the second one, I tell her. She nods. She already knows. He is pretty, and ambitious, and - Freud laughs - similar to my father. Find someone like your dad, she advises. I have. She has not.

Here's what he doesn't do: reply to me, buy me flowers, pick me, choose me. Given the option, the option will be taken. Over table ice hockey, my heart has fully perked up. The shot of vodka ruffles its feathers. Cute couple, a couple regards us as I, charmingly, lose at pool. They smile when I drag him into the adjacent photo booth.

The other one didn't take photos with you, or of you. The heart notices this. She is a wicked crone.

We taste each other's Hawaiian cocktails, served to us in an obscure basement. One is called Lani's. I take a photo, send it to my friend Lani. I take more photos, poloroids, equally awful. We exchange them, tuck them into forgotten places. I find mine in a book, months later after it's dead and gone, and stick it on my wall. Among the funeral pyre. I didn't realise you were so extroverted, I admire my achievement. On the bus cross-country, you play a game and don't speak to me. I pretend I pretend I pretend. I love acting, in this way.

A girl has interrupted our space. This is our morning, 6am, walk together. The pavement is small, so now I walk on the road in the bike lane. She walks on the pavement, next to you. She's your friend. You chat. I smile, lobotomy like, because I want to seem friendly and when my face is relaxed my mum tells me I'm unapproachable.

So what work do you do? Pavement girl asks me. I don't have a job, it's a soft spot. I dropped out of uni, lost myself, found myself, and am yet again at university. I'm lucky enough to not need a job, so I don't get one. This, this freedom from capitalism, the rat race, embarrasses me. I'm between things at the moment. She's running a marathon, so she jogs away. Finally. I walk you to the ocean waste and then take the morning commuter train home. I write in my diary, I like him. Despite - Despite - Despite -

Someone spikes my drink in a pubclub. I know it is spiked, because I cannot move. My friends tell me I have drunk too much - probably also true, I am known for this. I am not known for my self-restraint. I ring you, again, over and over. You answer, it's probably too late to come over now. I have work in the morning. That stings.

The next morning, I come to you anyway. It's uncontrollable, a gut reaction. My legs are moving and thumbs typing before my unplugged brain can catch up. Can remember what you're like. I enter, we hug, I wait till closing. He leaves my empty drink and me to go smoke outside with girls. Do you mind sitting here so no one can see you? We've closed. He asks. I sit.

I tell him I've been spiked. It doesn't really sink in. I meet his family, briefly. I'm a spare part in the house. It's unsettling. I open the door, close the latch quietly. Walk myself home. He asks if I've left.

My heart is swollen. It's confused. Move forward or give space? You ask to see me, I ask if you want to meet my friends. You do. And they say romance is dead. You text me later. I'm lost - we have romance? I've acted too cool, too unbothered and now you're calling me out. Why is it okay when you do it?

You ask to see me. Several times, more than I can remember. My heart doesn't forget, and its back is turned.

I get sick. It's bad, and I'm weak. The ivory tower is quiet and empty. Through the walls, I hear signs of life. Hello, I say. Haha, hello. We organise to meet. We argue. This is fun. I like this. You say, in my kitchen. It's a small space and you're arcing over me and I don't know how to feel, so with your arm propped on the counter I busy myself making tea that I don't want. This is familiar, to my heart. It wants to be held.

With your arm, bigger now, banded over my ribcage, I could purr. Feline, tilting her head as her ears are scratched. Her eyes are closed and she stretches her back, tail flicking in the air in content. I've missed you, you say. I don't say it back.

I like you in my space again. The dim warm light casting shadows on the new angles of your body. I admire, thinking myself a sculptor, and give myself words of affirmation. I made the right choice. It's different this time. It's safe, and I'm calm, and he makes me feel not sick. Strong.

I'm so safe that the words come, as they always do, as they do now. I like to show and tell my words like art I have collected and displayed. I want you to read. To consume. It's too much - suddenly. The head scratching stops. The ceiling lights are on and everything is hospital-bleached white.

I'm sick with anxiety. That's a hyperbole people use, but in my case, it means physical pain. I wake up throughout the night, despite the drugs. I consider asking AI for help, when my friend's support runs thin. I don't dare tell my mum, who liked him best. I bend over, doubled, as each thought flagellates me. I am full of sin that it chokes, all water is Holy and it's burning me.

The flower has wilted even though it's spring, and no amount of work is regrowing it. It won't survive the Easter.