"You broke my fucking heart."

The words, clumsy and direct, are not spoken eloquently nor accusingly. They are not classy, perhaps not even appropriate.

It is, simply, a statement.

The Aussie PIMOTI stares at me, blankly.

We stand staring at each other in the entrance of the bar. A group of girls pushes past me, laughing and suddenly we are hit with the cold January air.

We are both taken aback at the words.

"I'm sorry."

I don't know if there is anything else he can say, confronted by my red lips and drunkeness.

I don't know how to respond, I am even more surprised at the words as they came out of my mouth. It is not the first time I have seen him since, a few weeks back walking down my street with a hat pulled low over my face I passed him, in July I saw him with his arms around another blonde, his face buried in her neck and presumed he had been playing games all along. Both times I fell out of his line of vision, perhaps I was cowardly, or perhaps I simply did not want to be remembered.


"If it helps," he offers, looking uncomfortable, "I'm still a little fucked up."

Whether it does help, in that moment or later when I wake up, it doesn't matter. Not really. It was just another bad decision made worse by vodka, by desperation, by loneliness.

I am bi-polar when it comes to relationships, I am either blind, flying in with my heart stretched out in both hands, pleading for it to be taken, to be loved and nurtured, wanting to be consumed with passion and promise. Or I am cold and distant, indifferent and guarded, not allowing my lover so much as a glimpse of this iron heart, holding him away from me and scoffing at love's triumphs.
Last year, I was blind, offering my heart up for so little in return that I came to believe I was no longer desired, nor capable of love. And the men, in whose arms I wanted so desperately wanted to stay, so superficially safe, simply walked away.

The next morning dawns bright, and in hungover technicolour.
There are holes in my memory, my mouth is dry and the room still spins. Some time the night before, vodka and I had fallen out and I am left with the evidence of several late night phonecalls, an empty purse and the start of a hangover that will take 2 days to get over.

And maybe it is the last time I allow myself to make poor decisions after too much alcohol, make decisions based on desperation or loneliness. I am selfish enough to know that my happiness does not lay in anyone's hands but my own, to know that my happiness cannot be bought, or drunk, or found in myths or fairytales.

My happiness does not come from anyone other than inside myself.

Perhaps, finally, it is time I started living like it.