“Fuck the world and fuck you all

And fuck tomorrow too.

Fuck the night and fuck the show

And fuck both me and you.”

It’s really quite ridiculous,

how much I think of sex.

It warps my days & skews my mind,

& made me leave my ex.

It’s a worrying obsession,

almost a disease.

It’s destructive not productive,

& makes me quite a tease.

But even though it drives me mad,

& frustrates me a tonne.

I do not really want to stop,

it’s too much fucking fun

One day I will write a song

And one day I will sing it.

One day I’ll dance in someone’s arms

with my words on his lips

with his words.

It isn’t the pain that does it for me. It is the wallowing in it after.

Last night I dreamt. I dreamt I was backstage at a concert by one of my favourite bands. I dreamt I was talking to the lead singer, and he, with his arm slung around the guitarist, smiled at me as they asked me which song I would like them to play. I dreamt the song they played – it is not one of theirs. It doesn’t exist yet. I wrote the lyrics in my dream, though it belonged to them. And they played it and it made me cry.

I dreamt the grins on their faces as they came off stage to find me crying. I dreamt the arm of the lead singer slung around my shoulder and his fuzzy baritone murmuring something odd and a little wrong, but so completely right, in my ear.

I dreamt their hotel suite, with my friends and the rest of the band, and slow dancing with the keyboard player to an acoustic version of a song they didn’t play in their set.

I dreamt the balcony of their hotel suite, and slow dancing with the lead singer, the suite emptying behind us, with his voice in my ear – singing the same song. Not the one they sang for me on stage, the one I danced to in his suite with his band-mate.

Last night I dreamt.

Not even all the lollipops, not even the chocolate sword, not even the Sorceress can make this better. Not even all the candies.