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Do not date a writer. She has convinced herself that she is God. She will capture you between her two open palms and squeeze your diaphragm gently within her middle and index finger. She’ll laugh when you squirm, and tickle your bronchi. She’s read articles that have been telling her for weeks that being woken up at 5 AM by the girl who’s been digging nail marks into your shoulders for the past three weeks, might be a good thing. Because she has finally tasted language again and wants to tell you about it. Maybe she wants to ink it across your body. She might even want to write it on your shoulders with her tongue. Your protests will fall on deaf ears, she’s forgotten your name and where you met, she only remembers that she loves you because she has learned the sulk of your bottom lip.

Try mouthing words at her, she won’t listen ‘baby I have a 7 o’clock start. I’m tired.’ You’ll realise soon enough, if you stay, that time means nothing to her. The clocks have stopped. She’ll shush you quietly, or prise your mouth open and chew on the inside of your cheek or she’ll clamber out of bed on coltish legs to drink whiskey from a wine glass. The dimples on her knees will remind you of commas, but she will not always let you touch them. I’m exercising my right as a woman, she’ll say, when you want sex and she doesn’t feel it because she’s spent the weekend fucking poetic verse and her mouth is too tired to kiss you and her teeth are aching.

There’s trails of dust she’ll leave in her wake. The bed will be empty on Sunday mornings because she is sitting on the roof, smelling of alcohol and cigarettes and all the novels she’s slept with and the ink she’s bitten into. There will be curdled milk in the fridge, cheese three weeks off, and always cake. These days will be her worst. Her screams will fill your ears like lead if you try to touch her. She’ll turn her back on you and curl herself onto your favourite chair and spend hours there, watchful and irritable. She’ll leave you if you speak to her and there are days when you will wonder if she will ever come back, or if she has found another muse. Messages aren’t always read. And if they are, responses aren’t always found.

She’ll rip the skin of your back to pieces when she loves you again. The edges of your jaw will bear the three pronged ridges of her teeth. Her syntax will pour into your mouth like aged wine and she will use her body to curve herself around you like a vine and these will be the best and worst hours of your life.

You know her happiness is short lived. She will give you herself only when she wants to and then she will take it away. You do not own me, she’ll say, I own myself. I’m kept only by language. I’ll cheat on you with words. She has filled herself up already, and there is no room for you.

Do not date a writer. She thinks she is God.

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