My heart is your fist wrapped in blood.
My aching insides see no way out so I kill time in oversized tshirts and chipped fluorescent nails, faded purple streaks playing with my split ends as I trace my tracks in circles.
I press lit up buttons on an ancient cellphone and watch the sleazy snake eat it's insides out but both stay silent.
I watch endless mind numbing videos, sit through serials that preach sex and conjure up meaningless conversations with green moons on a pop up box, but none of them seem to fit the jigsaw puzzle of a forgotten fist.
I wait.
I wait on zebra print sheets, by black curtains laced with gold, on mutilated college benches, by old paan chewing men selling menthols, in crowded spaces with empty faces, I wait.
I wait for you to unclench your fist, to dip your fingers in blood and fingerpaint my fingerprints so I know I am me.
But you don't exist.
What the fuck am I doing?
I'm eighteen. I'm whole and unbreakable.
But my heart beats me like you did and so I think it is you.
See, you do exist.
3 comments:
i love your style! didnt know u write :).. real good!
Hello! I chanced upon your blog and I just wanted to say that you write really very well :) it's so expressive that you just can't help but read on and on.
Cheers!
If this is what you mean by you can't write anymore and you're bad. Please continue with the bad writing. Here's to all the existantnonexistantexistantnonexistant vampires we so love.
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