“What is it? Why is your hair a mess? Why are you crying? There is no whirlwind outside of your head.” She squeezed the inside of my arm with her little hands. Her little hands only understood how drawing was more fun than playing with a ball and that was simple enough. Why was my hair a mess? What war was there? Bombs and bombs and knives and threats. But outside no whirlwind. Just you, throwing yourself around. 
I said this loud and how profound,
my voice again lost in the crowd,
birds again, no words again,
swallow and swallow aloud.
Let me crack and never bounce back
this is how I know to be.
I’ll break and break
as if I want to break free.
But do I? I ask.
I like wearing this mask.
No true sword can penetrate.
But behind it, a gate.
Awaiting sure fate.
I need to be obsessed with something.
What will save me now? I gave up. On you. On me. On running and running, knowing I’d have to stop and breathe. Breathe it all in? All the smoke from the friction?
A time lapse occurs around me. How beautiful to see life like art. Voices increase in volume with excitement and then fall silent as sleep creeps in. Footsteps come up the stairs and fade as they reach their floor. The building shakes for the third time this month. A resident cat cries outside. And I can still hear water trickling into the fishtank next door. There is a buzz of electricity keeping my airconditioner on standby. The light changes behind my curtains. It goes from light to dark, to darker and then the suggestion of morning. And while all these things decorate moments, I want to escape.
Calm yourself and listen. Irrationality, when the sun shines, do you wait for me in the dark? People are just people. Why do you make them so much more? You’re quick to flare, you are. Ever defensive. Stop panicking and be a bit smarter. My mind is your tool – use it for good instead of recklessly spending its creativity on dark imaginings, of all the imaginings you can choose.
And now I’m left here to ‘deal’ with real human emotions. Nothing to take it away. Such beautiful soft souls need numbing because without it, they’ll die of pain. What do they call it? Yes… ‘Patience’. That thing that saves you from yourself. That thing you need between the strike and the regeneration. Patience. I wait with you. You’ll carry this away. Without you, I fear I might turn to dangerous relief. The type of relief that catches up with one after a while of dependence. And I keep telling myself that’s okay. Just sit. Wait it out. But maybe for me, it hurts so much more than it does for you. Maybe I feel it all too much and being hard will make me a monster, but being soft will kill me. Is this what you other humans do? Wait? Or maybe you don’t feel like I do. I know there are some like me. I wish you’d not let the world make you ugly.
smallbloomshloo 