I was desolate.
The sky was never purple or pink
I was inside, and my heart ached.
I ran out of things to do
I lay in my bed staring at the fan taking rounds.
There were tons of manuscripts, waited to be complete,
On the brown wood table on which paint has dried upon.
The canvases have fallen down; the nails are still deep into the walls.
I still tie curtains into a knot so that the sun will shed some tears on my bed too.
The lights I don't need anymore hang on the walls.
Mails are all left on read, I remember there used to be 506 unread.
I'm exhausted of doing everything in my head, the bedsheet is falling off my bed.
Thoughts that make no sense are crowding in my head.
I have no place to keep all the clothes I never wear.
My hands feel manly sometimes, but feminine at others.
Like when I hold a knife or want to color.
I pull the hair-tie off and my hair fall onto my shoulders, bounce; they feel soft on unpleasant days. Cliché
I live not far from the ground, though if I fall I could possibly die.
There's a light I intend to use for reading at night, but i never do.
I never read.
I write, I bleed
I write, I bleed
I write.
I bleed.
And to reading,
I don't pay heed.
