hello crazy

I have finally hit rock bottom.

I have become that version of a crazy ex girlfriend, that pathetic waif who begs for reunion - outside your window at 4 in the morning clutching a bottle of tequila yelling baa-bee don't you love me anymore? Writing bad poetry in Chanel rouge noir signed by with a lip print kiss. I am of course utterly disgusted with myself. That thing about the poetry - that's real - I mean I actually sent them (the Home Office) poetry (no not really written on one of their mirrors with lipstick - it was actually only an email, I am feeling a bit dramatic today). Only the first stanza. Sadly I can't really tell if its good. Technically it is, emotionally it is raw - what it all boils down to?

I am totally bonkers. This country has driven me around the bend. Watching me frantically type on yet another plea to my visa caseworker (that like all the others won't be answered) my husband shakes his head . He indulges my my love , a tragic story of unrequited affection, of loss; my love object covers me like a dark blanket - I cannot breathe. But I dare not leave.

Britannia, why won't you love me back? I have given up so much for you, dreamt of you my whole life. I adore everything about you - your beauty, your art, your history, your people. I would give you everything. Now I wait, still, once again and pray you notice me.

God Save the Queen
xxxx