*This is a piece of writing that just needs to be out in the world. The longer I keep it to myself the more it haunts me. And each time I read it I hate it even more. I wrote it a long time ago simply to expel thoughts, a ramble of quasi-feelings and embodied personas. That is the purpose of UNCUSTOM DEFINITVE. We aim to explore the human experience through literary means. So I decided if this piece had anything to do with that remit then it is my duty to share it, regardless of what anyone thinks or if they even read it. I hope I can rest easy knowing these thoughts have been let lose.*
Yeah, I've heard of belonging but have you tried fucking? Have you tried kissing the first guy to look you in the eye? Ok, so I've been in the other boy's beds and I'll admit they're nothing like yours, but you never gave me belonging. It's like I found my purpose in laying down and taking whatever they’d ask of me because it pleased them and that pleased me. I had only known fucking. And fucking is all well and good until you wonder why you can't stop fidgeting and your underwear seem to feel a little different.
But then why was it that I'd never ask for help but I'd ask for devoted love, for your commitment to the cause which is indeed, loving me. Because I was, of course, a cause, as you made me out to be. As though I’m not capable of it, and I needed all of you to make up all of me. You see, I've been told this story in which I'm a puzzle piece. As a matter of fact, I'm almost a complete puzzle. But I’m still looking for the solution. A solution to a problem which wouldn’t have been a problem had I not been told about it. Yet we need problems for solutions; my own commoditised solution. Neatly wrapped, pre-packaged, glossy, idyllic, expensive, fucking expensive, products. Taxing on my wealth or my health and either way I must have them because I need them. I have been told that I need them. The same way I told you that I needed you. So, tell me you need me and wrap me up each night like I am the only thing you’ve ever dreamed of. Because if my parents no longer want to sing me to sleep then heck, I can't do it myself. I can't do any of this by myself.
Don’t worry about me, I'm sure I'll come around. I’m sure I’ll slowly adapt to your customs and convince myself of contentment. Like I did to the notion of thoughtful fucking. Not that I am being mindful when we fuck but rather my head is full of thoughts because for too long I have waited for the moment that you actually made me speechless, yet it never came, and nor did I. I could buy an orgasm? How about tantra or a quick chat with the lovely lady on the tv? What's that channel? As long as I can get my kicks for as little as possible at the expense of my own mental stability then sure! I don’t mind. The attention economy.
Why don’t you reply to me, what are you doing? I don’t live in the twenty first century for your replies to be slower than my amazon orders. If I can't have you right now, I'll have a popcorn maker, or why not, this ashwagandha nighttime latte because I'm sure that will bring the contentment your companionship was supposed to. Forget I said that. I know I'm silly, I'm erratic and obsessive, I see that now. Don’t worry about me, I'll be ok. I’ll find myself in the words of my writing. Oh, wait I'm not a writer because writers write and the only words I ever fucking write are in the sms box at the bottom of my phone to you.
Sometimes I feel like I dropped my heart into a vat of acid. But now it is clear; it wasn’t acid but simply water and I just didn’t know how to swim.
Words by Sophie Muir