Anticipation and all its fulfillment
Expectations and their dissapointment.
Laying in the bathtub on my birthday.
Like a fool.
And laughing sincerely
Scared of further living
Letting someone else love for me.
Because dreams are too vivid.
I don't like you I just need your warmth.
For now and probably for a month.
And it's so enchanting
How I'm so careless but so scared
So reckless but so restrained.
Too young to be able to understand.
How it all functions,
Young and flirtatious.
Keeping the rest to myself because anything else is a negation.
Broken promises and broken bones,
On loud nights when I drink nonalchoolic champagne.
Heat raves and the sky falls,
I'm 16 and alive.
How did I make it?
Young and clueless,
Life's a movie and I'm awfully egotistical.
Undoubtedly hypocritical.
Speaking to all the clouds and ignoring the voices around.
Baby, I tell them,  "ill never fall back into love"
I'm an idiot plus the stars said love's just a social construct.
An experiment.
So i stood there in the dark,  no water in the bathtub just me, listening to chuckles in my room celebrating my birthday.

She says I sound like the flavour she smokes every now and then.
Velvet hookah smoke.
She's afraid, she's not.
I guess I am pretty frightening.
She says you're too real for me.
So different from what I imagined you to be.
She says my life's going too well for me to be negative.
And I laugh.
It's 4:39 and I want nobody.
Not a soul, not à hand to touch me.
People are tiring.
With their words and repetitive situations,
I seldom rather silence so I don't become a répétition of myself.
I take her outside and hand her a slim lighting it up blindly.
She smokes and stops talking.
"give me one"  so I take the cigarette and take it to my chest and out my nose.
Such a surprised grimace "you know how to inhale nicotine huh?"
I take one more and tell her I now understand why people smoke ever so desperately.
The placebo vice of normativity.
Smoking is like meeting people.
Seemingly good, foolish and totally unhealthy.
I'm tired of this patterned living.
She says how can your mind go to so many places?
Said that she could drown in my thoughts and I'd still find the simplicity of others fascinating.
Which I am not denying.
My mind's à pretty big ballroom.
With lacquered black floors perfectly made to reflect sound.
And she says she's scared.
Scared that I'm too complex,
Scared because I belong in too many places.
I tell her she's just confused and restless.
I tell her she should think of me less and let the nicotine in her body rest.
And I do confess.
That whole night was meaningless.

eating the inside of my lip
and uncovering my back in the moonlight.
I walk the streets nonchalantly.
No hearing.
Just sight.
And taste, the taste of the inside of my lip bleeding.
I was raised to be just and to keep my eyes on the sole thing that interests me.
Meaning everything.
So it's all I do.
I sit and stare unwillingly.
Keeping track of the eyes that read me and the ones that are just passing by.
Considering.
I'm built around the social construct of being lonely.
But not really.
I'm losing the fancy words I used to fight for just like I'm losing myself.
As I leave more me on my bed than anywhere else.
I shaved today to feel a hint of self interest.
It was completely useless.
I couldn't give a **** about myself with hair or without but that's just too much to confess.
I've been trying to sing more and dance and give into the so called creativity I harness.
It's all a lie.
It's all a distraction.
It's something I want to call motivation but can't.
Am i meant to rot in the lifestyle of a movie miserable human?
Walking the streets and spazzing on my bed.
With my dreams swept out of my head.
I look in three separate mirrors everyday.
Who am I and why am I not dead?
And that's the million dollar question.
Because somehow the moment everything collapses we turn to the forbidden.
But either way I digress I'd be too afraid to do it to myself.
I've found billion other methods that make me feel that they match the situation.
**** this poem.
It's another excuse for my insomnia.
Another excuse to justify why I woke up at 11 just to fall onto another bed.
All the memories I've collected, play me such a theatre show,
And I watch wondering if they're the dream from last night or real life.
And it makes me question again.
Who am I and why am I not dead?
Not because I wanna die necessarily but because at times I'm rather lucky.
Like the universe repays me.
Like the universe cried a single tear of mercy and out of all the people it rained on me.
And it still seems like I'm ungrateful.
The universe is mistaking my head for someone else who maybe instead would know how to use that luck efficiently.
I am no such mastermind.
I've lost my book based intelligence when I was 11 and gained my eyes when I was 13.
Ironically.
So who am I and why am I not dead?
Living a paradox withing irony itself,
I'm handmade by multiple clichés.
Or that's what I think.
My dreams seemed nice until people tell me they're just a fantasy.
Oh but look at me, 16 and complaining about dreams.
I'd end up a great housekeeper I'd tell myself though nothing stays clean.
I feel old.
Old in a way I've never felt.
Like by the time I'd reach 30 I'd already be dead.
Or maybe again,
Is it all on my head?
Adolescent scent in the times of complete desolation.
I stand and I don't understand.
Who am I and why am I not dead?