you constantly feel everything; the morning walks of housewives, the cold condensed vapour on the iced tea bottles, yellow lights of the moving cars, the big glob of the cloud that floated in the afternoon, the word of every suicidal book.
you have a small curved waist, you stand out and you have a petite body. the tips of your hair are naturally highlighted, although they aren’t that pretty. people look at you once, and walk away but turn around again to get another look. you walk like a living contradiction yet a dying cliché. your teachers ask you all the time if everything is okay at home, you fill them with stories and they nod. they feel sorry for you, and they want to help you. but it goes without saying, you can’t help the ones that don’t want to be helped. you lock your phone in the cupboard when you’ve finally had enough. you swoon over the ones that play the guitar and lost their lovers. they look at you with a mischievous look, and you never look away. you write songs in the small black notebook your father got for your birthday but the words dance to the instrumental you dont remember and they stop making sense. there are red blotches on every thing you see, you rub your eyes and the spots increase. they move with you, they look as red as the eyes of the people underneath your bed. you live in a world that everyone used to love but they’re too busy now. you drink coffee in the afternoon and smoke in the morning, your mornings are a little different than of others. they’re dark and everyone’s asleep. you were always a little different from others, a little raw and little loved. you refuse to take compliments, they make you uncomfortable. you have goals, and you have wishes. you want to jump off a cliff for the adrenaline and learn the drums for the beats. you talk in a weird language. they’re not sure if it is a language, anymore. the boys at school are curious to know which lip balm you use. your best friend says you have pretty lips. you think about every exclamation mark and fullstops. you lean into the shadows of the different moons of jupiter although you always loved saturn a little more. you paint the sky and cover it with stars, to them they’re just white dots and to you they’re luminous balls of fire that fall and everyone makes a wish. you find more comfort in the starting tune of skins as you lay in your bed with a week old root beer than you ever found in your father’s hugs. the beer tastes sour and you love it. you move around and lay upside down, your hair touches the floor and everything feels different. you can feel the beer moving in your empty stomach, it touches the walls of your stomach and you can almost feel it reaching your throat again, it doesnt come out. maybe it’s scared of you. you listen to your father’s heartbeat every time he gives you a hug, the heartbeat that no longer beats for your mother. living with the one you no longer love is equal to living in a body you could never love.
you constantly feel everything, even when you dont want to.
(for some reason i feel like this piece and this picture have a weird connection or relation to each other.)