What do you drink to get the purple out of my tongue? What do you take to forget? The picture
of white lady on the mirror chanting ****** mary. The video of being spanked. The layout of the patterns. It is all made into a trail. Wishing to cloak, I thought it worked but it was only a blanket. The blinking lights of the window.  It manages to ***** me and remind me of competition in traffic. The list. Lists. Numbered. Keep scrolling. Will it affect my life?

Needing to fit the box of a ten-year old, I sleep. Then, I post. That was not myself. How did this whole page about me belongs to someone else? I never drift before. Why, I wonder. Here comes the businesses. The banquets. Watching a flute get Tarzan'd by a piece of rope hanged across the room. Out of the blue, I found myself touring with a foreigner. What does he want from me? Is it wrong to think this way? He only asked me where I live and how I am. I stop. I feel the chills burning through my hands to fingers. The bones get cold, but do not when plugged by nerves.

I-I'm addicted? I need to sleep more. It's healthy, they say. It's fun.


When was the last time I had fun?


The more I see the light, the more I hate it. I bring the shutters down. Relaxing. Freeing. Pink flower keep falling. Peach flower keep shimmering. How come I never thought of it before? Now back to sleep. Wait, I can't sleep anymore. But everything's so festive. Are the photos not alive? But they frequently chatter. To me. And you---no me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Branded into these pixels of prizes and sporks full of dramatic dressings. What is meaning again? I kick the blanket out of the bed. I threw my pillows on the other side. It's hot. Everything's so hot. My air conditoner is on max---what's happening?? No, sleep!

It does not take long for me to gasp for air. I keep denying it but it is always in the back of my mind.

The only answer is to get out.

I try by slowly lifting my legs and down to the floor. Do I really? Now? This is the only answer. I repeat thrice. I'm getting old.

A wind caresses my cheek. I forgot I was even in a house.

Dream's over.

I feel like an open book
not just some words on paper,
with still some story to tell
trying to mean something greater.

She is half a Hershey's kiss from the hilt of a child,
The blue screen, her lampshade; the glass, her mind.

'Hey will you entertain a question, angel0f_death9:
am I rather self consumed for dwelling on my selfishness in the apex of the night?'