Nov 2013
11.09.13; 11:48 PM
The house going to sleep is a matter of sounds fading, tap-dancing one after the other into oblivion. I know it’s just me when gone are the television sounds, the whir of electric fans, fingers tapping on the keyboard when I pass by your room, the air-conditioner hum when I pass by our mother’s, gone are all the reminders of life. The bags under my eyes are unwanted proof. By 12, my nail beds are bleeding and I am blinking at a million open tabs so I don’t think of you. At 1 am, there are gaps in my soul and I can feel the bitterness of a smile that may be mine, or perhaps yours (the one you never gave me), the saltiness of tears that may or may not come out. Last is when at 2 am I think I hear floorboards creaking and there are shadows in the kitchen that cannot be accounted for, my fear is limited where loneliness is not. my soul longs to be gazed upon, for a conversation to be begun, on the topic of truth and the depth of the ocean.
I am selling myself to death because life will not take me.
The house going to sleep is a matter of sounds fading, tap-dancing one after the other into oblivion. I know it’s just me when gone are the television sounds, the whir of electric fans, fingers tapping on the keyboard when I pass by your room, the air-conditioner hum when I pass by our mother’s, gone are all the reminders of life. The bags under my eyes are unwanted proof. By 12, my nail beds are bleeding and I am blinking at a million open tabs so I don’t think of you. At 1 am, there are gaps in my soul and I can feel the bitterness of a smile that may be mine, or perhaps yours (the one you never gave me), the saltiness of tears that may or may not come out. Last is when at 2 am I think I hear floorboards creaking and there are shadows in the kitchen that cannot be accounted for, my fear is limited where loneliness is not. my soul longs to be gazed upon, for a conversation to be begun, on the topic of truth and the depth of the ocean.
I am selling myself to death because life will not take me.
