Slurping noodles, and the knot between the brows tied by a thumping heart in a clamour of troubles. Feeling the pull of gravity, the hooks that have pierced my lips reel them towards the ground, naturally. The constant state of agony in which I live leaves creases etched into my skin, and if you would bother tracing those fine lines with your fingers, you would unfold a stream of anguished possibilities, disfigured by unspoken restrictions.
Would the latter half of this year truly be better? That could only mean one of two things: I have been reassured by assurances, or I have woken up the repressed consciousness that completes my existence. I wonder which is which, aha. By this weekend, I would like to know if you are a stone worth the weight. If up until now I have felt the feathers of my wings and you are the rain that keeps me from spreading them, then I can only pretend as if you are but the calmest weather in which summer breezes are infatuated with.
Know this: You are but a choice. Lonely as I am, to be reduced to beggary by one who does not look at me willingly is an impossibility my pride will defend. Even if the truth has been refused all along, I just want to hear you say it.
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