I hate it when the peopleI know make their ways intowhat I write; my words haveevolved to make bad look worse, but the real reason isI’m tired of having more pagesto read than people to sit with.
The world grows a new pair of ears every day,just to hear me say what I have to say. I can remain quiet, in the corner of the room I always sit in, but I don’t because one day, what I have to say may become the thing the world grew ears that day for.
I say this with love: I’m at my happiestwhen you’re so far from where I sit that when Ilook at you, you seem like a moving dot.
I could’ve been easily fooled by you,but no, I had to make you up in my mindand let that version of you fool me.
I don’t have a place to be,even if I am allowed to get lost.
Pain is a whole body experience.You can’t clip a fingertip and expectto have a fantastic afternoon.
One day, I will be OK.It shouldn’t be too many daysfrom today. It won’t.When I am there,I won’t have broken words.My punctuations would behaphazard because I’d bebusy being happy.I won’t stand in the streetand ask for a story.I may sneeze a couple of times,but I wouldn’t fear tothrow out the lump ofsorrow that’s been lodged somewhere in my body.I will learn to ride a bike,or I wouldn’t be too hardon myself for not willingto learn it ever.When I sit down towrite something random,it wouldn’t read like this.Or anything I have written before because I would be OK. And OK people read beautiful: their words read intelligent,their metaphors lyrical, andtheir poems poetic.If I ever make a mistake,I wouldn’t make it my lifegoal to reason it out.I will know I make mistakes;I can’t change them, but Ican live better.I may start to enjoy reading books.I may learn to play the piano;I may buy a second-hand one,if I ever become a proover a fortnight.When I’m OK,I would unlike allthe songs I liked on Spotify.I’d rename myself and go somewherethat doesn’t feel likewalking on shards.When I sing,it would sound bearable.My bearing wouldn’t be awkward. My hair would grow longas a blue whale and I’d wrapit around me when winter comes.I wouldn’t sweat;OK people shouldn’t sweat.I wouldn’t bath becauseI would always smell like freshly baked cookiesand I wouldn’t poo becauseall I eat would be magically turned into energy.When I cry—which would be never,if I am OK—I would cry sugar crystals. When I laugh—which, let’s be real,would be all the time—earth’s temperature would come down a tinybit. It wouldn’t rainwhen I don’t have an umbrella; it wouldn’t shine badlywhen I am heavily clothed. Everything would befantasticalwhen I become OK.It would be so wonderfulI’d feel light as a humming bird. It would be so wonderfulI wouldn’t adore Plath or Dickinson. It would be so wonderfulI would actually feel alive.
You only need to explainwhen your words are weak.I remember days when I wokeup and said to myself that Iwill outshine the sun that day.I used to say that with suchtrust, I outshone thesun every time.
Leaving someonebehind could sometimesbe an act of kindness.
I catch every second by its tail and put it in a jar. I have been catching time for some time now. I don’t know why I do it so religiously, but maybe if I have enough time, I’ll figure it out.