The Tourist

- You're the only person I've ever cared about apart from myself - I think.
- How is your girlfriend? - I ask.
He smiles, laughs, we chat about their holiday in St. Tropez. I remember having sex with him in the early afternoon and the way he'd tell me how much he loved me just before he would come. I tell him about my summer and how I think he's too posh to function. He laughs and makes a joke about what a champagne socialist I've become. I remember how we used to be friends before we fucked that night.
I've slept with so many since you and still all I remember is being told how much you loved me and how much I wanted to believe you. And I feel like I'm going backwards and never forwards and the scale follows me charting each failure, each step away back into myself.
There's nothing here - just hunger for attention and desperate overwhelming need. Nourish me, nurture me, please fucking love me I think and let me starve until I deserve it so I look for annihilation wherever I can find it. Sex, alcohol, starvation - it's the same thing. Familiar pain - the kind you can open the wounds and look into it, like welcoming a forgotten beloved friend, remembering you could feel.
My holiday romance hasn't contacted me since my return back here - I've given up on that one. I realise I was just a tourist passing through, which is kind of how I feel about my life right now. I want out and I don't mean in the death sense of the word. I'm at one of the best universities in the world. This, as my grandmother repeatedly tells me, is the best year of my life. Never will I be more beautiful, intelligent and privileged, and all I can think of is sex. And calories.