Five years ago I was 22 years old and living in a Backpackers hostel in Melbourne, Australia. I was in the midst of an unhealthy affair with a man ten years my senior. And there was a boy. A good, sweet, slightly mad, boy who held my hand in the street, played scrabble with me in cafes and sang Moldy Peaches songs with me into the early hours of the morning. I nearly kissed him on my 23rd birthday. It was a burning, intense friendship which I think we both wanted to be more but were too damaged and mixed up to vocalise. When the time came for him to leave, I cried and we sat holding each other for hours.
I haven’t seen him since. He wrote a song about me. This is my rebuttal. He saw into my heart but never saw that a piece belonged to him.