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page one
it starts with the wave of a hand
a simple introduction
'hi, what's your name?'
it starts with looking and seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes and human
it starts with feeling no cliche butterflies in your stomach
and no additional voice in your head
amongst the others
and no rapid pulse in your still-beating heart
page two
somewhere along the way the waves turn into inside jokes and small smiles
crinkles by the corners of eyes
and light chuckles
and glancing just a millisecond too long
page three
and, well, glancing just a million times too often
page four
and you write poems in attempts to make yourself believe
to drown yourself in denial
to avoid confronting the - nonexistent - blooming bud growing
sprouting from all angled corners
and cracking curves
and jagged edges of you
page five
spoiler: it doesn't work
page six
and it's strange because apart from seeing what is there you see more
or really you don't see what is there
you see what you want to be there
page seven
you see skin and bones and beauty and freckles and stars and constellations in eyes and ethereal -
page eight
perfection
page nine
except perfection doesn't exist
and what you see doesn't exist
it's just your unrealistic expectations piled up from miles and smiles of movies and books and manga and everything
page nine
and you know this
page nine
but it goes into one ear and out the other
page nine
and it doesn't stop you from claiming
page nine
you're in love
page ten
if love is just infatuation with a physical manifestation of your ideals without their consent
then i guess you're right
page eleven
there are butterflies bending, banging on you, begging to be released
you wonder when your definition of beauty became a name and a face
and you wonder when love became synonymous to pain
page twelve
the butterflies turn into birds and then bears and then freaking buildings
except these building are moving and apparently earthquake proof because you can't seem to break them down
instead the buildings are breaking you down
but the truth is no, no they aren't
don't you see?
you're breaking yourself down
how do you heal if you are both the poison and the antidote?
page thirteen
if only you could rewrite the story
but how could you?
how do you rip the pages
how do you erase the sickeningly sweet
slow stabs slicing through your spine every time a smile is sent your way
how do you mute the thudding in your brain telling you that this could never be
how do you ignore the extra echoes in your head yelling at you to get yourself together
how do you get yourself together?
page fourteen
you've been asking so many questions lately
but you know the answer to all of them
page fifteen
there's a small voice
a minuscule, malevolent voice whispering maybe
whispering maybe and perhaps and potentially
maybe you're not the only one who wants to hold on just a little longer
page sixteen
but see
it's funny how the story starts with two people and now it's just one person with an overactive imagination
illustrating a person as something more
something better
page seventeen
but you're not creative enough to keep your illusion for too long
and soon you start to see less of what you want to be there and more of what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human
human
page eighteen
human is ugly and human is cruel and human is wretched
but human is somewhat
beautiful
in its ugliness
and human is raw in all its dishonestly
and human is real
even if you made it out not to be
page nineteen
you will never truly now human
you will never truly know anyone or anything that isn't a figment of your imagination
but it's enough
page twenty
it starts with seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human
and then it ends
the story ends somewhere
anywhere really
but it ends
it always ends
