“Sometimes, I ask myself if God could ever forgive us for what we’ve done to each other. Then I look around and I think, God left this place a long time ago.”

We watch movies like Blood Diamond, Shindler’s list… and our eyes shine with tears as we witness the injustices in the world. We learn that these movies, that seem like exaggerations, are reality. The value of a life differs depending on where you live. What your religion is. The tone of your skin. That is reality, embrace it. We sympathize for a while, maybe even cry and suddenly feel blessed as fuck for all the things we take for granted. Running water, the roof over our heads, food on the table. Freedom. The breath in our lungs. The untainted blood pumping through our veins….. yet our sympathies have expiration dates. How many minutes, hours, days, do we mutter a prayer of thanks for the things we have? How long does it take for us to treasure our cellphones and macbooks and actual books before we begin to feel unsatisfied with our material possessions again? How many of you roll your eyes when people mention “the starving children in Africa?”

The reality is, despite what happens to others, life goes on. We move on. It isn’t a matter of being ungrateful or apathetic. We are simply human.

“Do you think people are inherently good?”
“No. They’re just…. people.”

My family fought again. This family tradition of ours, hurling obsenities and insane accusations at each other right before or during holidays was upheld once again. I was watching 300, and at this point I was so tired of the repetitive arguments that I just shouted for them to shut the fuck up, I’m trying to watch a movie here. Of course, they couldn’t hear me over their own raised voices. I stabbed at the volume button as high as it would go and fixated my attention on the numerous bloody bodies dropping to the ground already slick with the red substance. I couldn’t help but laugh at some of the scenes for no reason at all. Once things quieted down, I grabbed my last cigarette and headed to the terrace, my only haven in this dreary house. I smoked it and watched the starless sky, the exact shade of dull, midnight blue, wondering if the clouds were blocking the pinpoints of light or if the city lights were just too bright. I sat on the ledge, looking down morosely at the dirty asphalt street two storeys down. A stray cat slinked by, and I snapped my fingers to get its attention and waved. The cat studied me for a while, and deciding I wasn’t worth the attention, sneaked away into the dark gaps between the pools of the street lamps. I killed the cigarette, watching the bright orange glow of its head extinguish into a pile of charred ashes. I breathed in the cool night air, watching as neighbors walked by beneath me, oblivious of my silent scrutiny. Then I heard footsteps and the door to the terrace squeak open. My peace was disturbed yet again. My aunt saw the cigarette next to me, paused, then said nothing lit up her own. I didn’t even care that she found out my dirty little secret. And I think that’s where my apathy stems from. If I cared, the last strings of my sanity would be cut.

When someone tells me they love me, it makes me want to scream. When those three words make it past their lips, It makes me hate myself even more. Tell that to someone who wants it, who needs it more than i do. Someone who could requite it. 

Then they tell me, “Chelsea, you’re the one person I know who needs love the most.”

He kisses me, and he says I have the softest lips.

His honey colored eyes watches me as I talk and he says he has never met a girl like me before.

He places my hands on his shoulders and places his around my waist.

He nuzzles my neck and tells me I taste like sugar.

He leans in for another kiss, and as always, my eyes are open. Because although he is not a meaningless affair, although he has a special place in my life, I’ve heard all these words before and they have lost their magic with every whispered repetition. 

As he clutches my face in his hands, then the back of my head, kissing me deeper, in a passionate fervor, I fall limp under his strong body. I stare at the space behind him, allowing him to explore my body, because I am flushed with alcohol and am too apathetic to resist. What I thought was special, a relationship indescribable, ends just like every other I’ve ever had. 

I feel like an object, and the emptiness grows. I can almost feel the light extinguish from my eyes, my chest draining of all feeling as I endure just another vapid moment with just another male companion. If only I remembered how to cry, I would have. But as always, I kept my eyes dry, and fixated my gaze the at the bare, cobwebbed ceiling, my alcohol induced rapidly pulsating heartbeat serving as the only reminder that I am alive.

Hand painting a card for Mother’s Day.

Those days when it rains and I simply want to stay in bed.

Even if I am itching to tell you that I miss you, the smell of you, the taste of you, the feel of you, I never will. Even if I wanted you to hold me and shush me as I cried reading the ending of The Book Thief, knowing you would come over if I asked you to, I never will. Even if I wanted you to brush my hair behind my ear and look at me with the clearest brown eyes I’ve ever seen, I’ll never tell you. When I sang “Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?” And you whispered a yes, I never will say it back. I never will.

And in the night I am most vulnerable, lonely. In the silence of it, in the darkness of it, I feel more exposed enshrouded in darkness than being naked in the sunlight. Lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling with a sheet under me and a sheet over me, I turn my head to the empty space beside my bed I wish someone would fill. Not just by another meaningless affair, or a drunken friend. I lie awake, my nocturnal eyes able to see deep into the black recesses of my room, at all the empty corners and empty spaces, so devoid of anything.

“Chelsea… have you ever considered that, uhm… maybe you’re a lesbian?”

I had to laugh. I just had to. The only female best friend I had was questioning my sexual orientation. And because I never allow people’s opinions to hinder my opinon of myself, I dismiss her theory. I go on dates with guys, but never tell anyone, the reason being I do not like people asking questions and the identities of guys I occasionally fuck. Especially because those affairs mean nothing to me. And it is so like my best friend to over analyze everything I say to her because, and I quote

“You’re too goddamn mysterious”.

But as I lay awake at night, staring at my white ceiling wth ghosts of water stains on them from previous monsoon storms, my norcturnally overactive mind phishes out the memory of my best friends remark and dwells on it. Am I a lesbian? Does that explain why I can’t seem to and am not willing to develop a healthy romantic relationship with a male because I am having relationships with the wrong gender? I must admit I pondered this for a long time, recalling all the girls I kissed, and also the guys I’ve kissed, and weighing which I liked more.

Guys. Definitely guys.

I tested myself further, channeling my overactive imagination by fantasizing about Megan Fox stroking my naked body. I recoiled, shivered from discomfort and almost instinctively squeezed my legs shut. Just to make sure, I then fantasized Ewan Mcgregor (daddy issues…) doing the same things……. and well I began to feel aroused.

So no. I’m not a lesbian. In the end, I’m straight as fuck.

Painting a hippie by the light of the setting sun.