A keeper: (n) someone who you’d likely spend the rest of your life with if you find him/her. My dear sister, sorry to say this, but that man you are clutching on to like the latest LV purse, is not a keeper.
I know it hurts- these truths; tearing at your insides like a savage beast. Would you rather I keep quiet and watch you mourn inconsolably a few months down the line over unrequited love and self-worth smashed to tiny bits; bemoaning time that cannot be recovered, with tear marks like a child forced to swallow pap without sugar every morning? Would you rather I turn the other way and pretend I didn’t see that gaffe- the one you tried to hide just so we can all pretend that your man is a good one?

Ah! My darling, I have a big mouth. Have they not told you? I have a big mouth andstrong opinions. You see, I used to be just like you, making excuses in the name of love; twiddling my thumb, biting my lower lip and blinking a hundred times at the sight of casual love mistaken for the real thing- you know the type that comes like a whiff of a fart, leaving a foul odour behind that kills your sense of humour and blurs your inner glow. I will not let you suffer this ignorance. Haba, what else am I here for? I will tell the truth and watch the devil run mad; lay down bare facts and watch demons flee.

Does he have healthy conversations with you? Heck do you have conversations at all?! Every day you meet after work at a bar on the Island- both of you, sharing a bottle of wine and a nice dinner. You think he meets up with you because he cares? No, he is only waiting for traffic to wane before he heads back to the mainland.

You sit for dinner; his hand should be holding yours, no? But where are those hands of his? On his damned blackberry- pinging away! He is smiling into a phone, chuckling and texting. Who is he texting? It doesn’t matter. It could be Bob Marley for all I care, it still wouldn’t make it cool. With all sense of love and reason, he should be handling your breasts…ok maybe not your breasts, but your hands- on the table, drawing love marks. That’s what a keeper does.

Where is the gleam in his eyes, ehn? The last time you saw it was last week when he was on top of you, riding you like a horse to its death. You saw it only for a split second before he poured his waste right inside your body. And then his eyes wouldn’t even rest on you for another second. Did he not roll out of bed and into the shower? When he came out did he not frown at you- still lying in bed, feeling like Monalisa (the painting)?

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