the worms start to crawl on my belly. my innocent desire is only to express my moonlit thoughts without being scrutinized by desperate mouths, eating cockroaches instead of vomiting snake skins. p r e t t y little thing, they say. no one sees the facade. but to me, the prettiest thing comes from the abandoned houses, yelling in shame, intimidated by the oppressors.

but do oppressors really matter? i think not.


(ACT I. THE DEATH AT THE SINNER PARTY)

the water from the shower continues to run down. my back against the wall, trembling hands, smudged mascara on my lashes. people's eyes always imply to act proper. i will always be a   /l a d y/   but oh, i think i will never be free from their expectations. frowning face, stern behavior, bitter truth—they loathe it.


(ACT I. THE DEATH AT THE SINNER PARTY)

i have always wanted to tell the mortals to bury the hatchet. but i know sustaining a war sometimes feels comfortable—a unique distraction to preoccupy our raging minds, parting ourselves from the unsatisfied society. still, everything stays. our pasts. the heartbreaks. love. the deities will never punish us for the displeasure but it will make us tick. we should know.


(ACT I. THE DEATH AT THE SINNER PARTY)

i feel as though i am a misplaced dirt. i don’t belong here. i don’t fit in anywhere. it seems like every place i go to will be a strange memory. like a mere fog in the city transporting your soul into vulnerability, allowing you to surrender your weeping soul. some days, the sadness consumes me. stop this ******* pain! oftentimes, when i am alone, in the dark corner of my bedroom, i say this to myself. beating my chest intensely, missing the warm glow i once had, preaching the power of internal monologues i purposely created to fabricate a picture where i am pure and glistening. but this isn’t me. i am beseeching the gods above us, have mercy on me! the unknown cause forcing my bones to feel the ache. give me the silver blades to end this madness. open lungs, dampen pillows and deep desires to take a new gaze upon the world. but the misery keeps my hands *******. the fact that i have the ability to commit a mistake drowns my body in the ocean of disappointment. hush, put me inside the coffin instead. i made my own bed. this impulsion to start anew is nonsense. the absence of one’s emotions used to make me puke. i have never known how people can easily forget a face, not until i lost myself, and to realize everything about it is a fear i will endlessly think about—for breathing the pure poison of the world is easier. i will never be the same. i will never be the same. i will never be the same. the eccentric aftermath will always be bittersweet. in the blink of an eye, i forgot my own face.


(ACT I. THE DEATH AT THE SINNER PARTY)