yeah, who?
lately, it is kind of strange.
the lad craves for something rotten—for example, spoiled milk
or dead flowers.
he wonders why. he is not supposed to be hungry for
something that he knows too well it will never fill him,
but it could be his suicidal instinct,
like a moth attracted to flame.
meanwhile,
the said lad shall remain unloved.
will you love him a little?
i press the buttons only to find out that
i am going to delete the letters i have typed.
it’s pretty unusual to be so gloomy in the morning,
it’s pretty annoying to feel blue.
the ground is shaking. !
my hands slip
and i start to fall.
i want to cry.
are you there?
have you been there?
- from two into one, and i realized that
i am left alone
what is it for today’s dinner?
the air is cold, my toes are numb.
my heart is going thump-thump-thump,
and usually at times like these, a dark and warm figure will show up
and embrace me closely.
so i wait,
and wait
and
w
a
i
t
;
the familiar figure never came.
the small screen highlights the contour of my face, my fingers punching the buttons.
my eyes are fixed on the little pixelated heroes fighting dragons.
i set the volume to its highest and i turn off my air con.
i wonder why my toes are still cold. i slip them under the covers,
but it never gets better.
the air is cold and heavy and suffocates me.
there is a lump in my throat and i can’t let out any voice.
so i smile.
and
that
is
it
.
*
hello…?
oh, hi there. what’s the problem?
um, nothing in particular. i- uh, i’m not sure.
it’s okay.
no, really, it’s like… i don’t know.
i’m listening.
i probably won’t say anything clear.
it’s okay.
…
…
…
…
…
…
… i…
…
…
…
i don’t know… where to start. i… i don’t know.
it’s alright. come here, sit with me. let’s watch something, this maybe, or play this.
i’m sorry to bother you.
not at all. i can understand.
i’m not telling anything, at the end…
… but you do feel better? don’t you?
…
don’t you?
… um, now that you say so… actually, yes.
that’s a relief!
it is indeed. thanks to you.
i didn’t do anything.
you listened.
*
“are you sure this is okay for you?”
“it’s okay. sometimes i think i deserve more, since they don’t love him like i love him, but-“
“…”
“… but really— i think this is for the best. because i can never be what he wants.”
“… ah. yes. i see.”
“yeah. that’s why, i think it’s better to leave it like this. and i don’t want to make things worse for him, either.”
“because he already has a lot to think about…”
“indeed. and i don’t want to add up his confusion.”
“but it’s going to be hard on you.”
“i know.”
“…”
“i know. don’t worry. i’ll- i’ll somehow manage.”
“he loves you. you should let him know, at least that you lo-“
“he knows already. but there’s a problem.”
“… oh.”
“yeah. so, well, i’ll stick with just this.”
he nibbles on his bottom lip and looks up. the man in the mirror stares back at him. he strays his eyes to the bottom right- a habit that shows his uncertainty- and leaves.
see through my drawings, see through my photographs, do NOT see the fucking technique and the other superficial things- that is not what i am trying to express.
anybody can paint, anybody can draw, anybody can write, but they are trying to express something that is MUCH more than mere beauty.
fuck.
sometimes, i kind of want to talk to someone, but i don’t know how to begin. i am fairly certain that i will end up saying nothing, like how i tend to erase things i have written down on paper.
sometimes, i kind of want to let it slip, but i don’t know when. because at those fragile times my guard is set, and thus the mask is worn.
sometimes, i kind of want them to see, but i hesitate. will i be able to take it? will i be ready when they penetrate in, push in, tearing my walls?
sometimes, many times, i kind of want them to at least notice -that it is not talent we are talking about. don’t they recognize a cry of help? but afterwards, what will i do if they do?
sometimes i kind of want to disappear completely, forgotten, and that is it.
i stuck pictures of nino on my headboard (if the back of a cupboard can be called as headboard) and i sleep with my dolls so i can have anything to greet when i wake up.
— it has been like this since i was 12 i think. i can’t remember why.
Write about me.
I want to know what you think of me. I want to know what you see me as. Why? I’m curious. I want to see more of me from other people’s eyes.
No one ever told me about myself (yes, in real life), and I wonder why. But I kind of heard them say I’m cold. Am I? Probably. Perhaps it’s because I listen to people but I don’t do what people tell me to. I will always be the way I am.
That’s my speculation. But I want to know what others think.
And no, I don’t bite for no reason. So it really is okay to talk to me about your problems with me- it’s easier to sort things out that way, too.
Or anything. Really. Because I’m curious.
