my dear friends
open up to me
the ones with the hardest shells
the thinnest wrists
the driest peels,
split in veins of survival and conquest,
everything based on death.
then everything was based on life.
and then everything was based on death again.
We had three variables in every science project, and the one kept constant was never time.
I hate sleeping when I feel loss of time.
Then sometimes I love hating opposites,
and I give in for days.
Fourteen hours, seventeen.
Waking up to the spotlight TV flashing
to remind me I'm very much alive.
I just have to want to feel it.
And apparently most times I don't.
Today I felt love like I only feel randomly.
On my detested birthdays. On sofas or chairs where my legs are tangled angled upwards downwards against walls pillows and rails
glass tables or metal edges.
One day I will write an almost endless account of all that happened
in each and every category.
I have not yet decided whose interest to put most into account.
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