Blood on the broderie anglais and him, scrubbing it out. Borax. Bleach. Hands redraw, deep in the water. Dark hair, greased, slipping into his eyes. And it feels too intimate for him to do this for me.

Move in and feel it again. Moments of unbearable depression and then, in the next hour, it’s gone. Like a body rolling off of me. The pressure released from my chest. Question it.

I sit in the cinema and feel the crush. The muscles in my chest tensing for impact. I clutch my knee, grounding in the darkness. 'This room is too big,' I say, staring at the ceiling.

Before I’m awake, before I’m even aware that I exist again, I wiggle my fingers. I wait for resistance.

Ash blowing in the breeze and everyone screaming around me. Sleeping in a bed that’s not my own. The sheets feel dirty even when they’re clean. Shaking hands.

Whoever follows the mundane hellscape that is my Instagram will be glad to know that I have finally stopped watching Pride and Prejudice.

In my wildest fantasies, I don’t sit broodingly across a table in an obscenely expensive restaurant watching as Jake Gyllenhaal nervously uncorks a bottle of wine

Last Sunday, I watched La Belle Personne for the first time. I had wanted to watch it for a long time after seeing countless moody pictures of Léa Seydoux and her perfect nose…