when you look at me,
you leave me feeling naked
down to my core.
when you speak
you catch me standing
blank against a motionless world.
when you touch
you have my heart exploding in
colors out of beat.
So don't.
don't look at me.
don't speak to me.
don't touch me.
Just don't.
The smell of fried garlic is still clogged in my nostrils. The electric fan seems to produce less and less air everytime its head turns to me. It's ironically a hot evening - the aftermath of an eardrum-piercing, sleep-cheering rain the night before. I'm currently hooked up on MTV. TRL fans are screaming for their lives just now. At other times I would sneer at those larynx-puking fans (I couldn't imagine Einstein screaming for some people as crazy, or Snoop Dog or Manang Alice, our somewhat embittered care-taker - please keep this hush hush!). But at other (other) times, I envy those people. I wish every single second of my life was a voice box-breaking, TRL Studio-wrecking scream!
I'm sort of tired being locked up thinking. I don't want to play mad trying to knock so hard at this head of mine - I doubt it if someone else is in here. For the longest time all I have been hearing are my weary inhales. I'm still waiting for a scream. For an exhale. Because unfortunately I'm still inhaling, just.
