i could be sitting on my bed with soaking socks on my pale feet and gloves on my meaty fingertips
and yet feel like a naked display in a museum of judgmental beings.
my hands could be flapping up in the sky of love. a sky with mist evaporated from my eternal blood flowing through my platinum veins. a sky full of clouds rising from my brain wrapped in silver stardust from overseas.
yet those same porcelain grungy hands would feel restricted behind my back with the rope of depression and anxiety. my mouth would be twisting and turning. would be remolding into my skull to take sips from the vessel of words.
i would be creating the honey of poetry on my velvety tongue. winding my breath to stir the ingredients;
yet question my hoarse voice if it would be spitting poison with foul letters.
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and
i loathe this imbalance. I hate how my fake plastered smiles. wide enough to fool those sinister speaking so highly about this illusion called life.
i feel disgusted to live in this hollow shell of my skin which makes me pull my gut through my rusted lips with iron welding of self depreciation tattooed upon it.
and it's frustrating. it's frustrating to recite these tales, which no one has heard before ,to myself everyday.
every time i turn towards a happy ending, the ink of my broken pen starts planting weeds; killing daffodils before they are even out to breathe.
every time a speck of my heart turns glitter from grey and black, the paintbrush of self loathe erases it. erases it before it acknowledges what it's like to beat again and not be stone cold; trapped in a ribcage of cracked bones
every time my soul warms up with the giggles of my ancestors sitting by the shore of some beach; squeals pouring from my younger siblings; business talks stirring between the males and flirty gossips scenting in the females,
it anguishes from questioning myself would it matter if I disappeared in the waves of this abandoned sea till my lungs are swimming without wanting to breathe?
for
how can someone be weaved with silk; adorned with constellations on their necklace from stars and yet weep for not resembling the moon so far ?
