skins

I have a sign like this on my door.

It says “Please make up my room”.

Today I woke up and read Please make up my mind.

My subconscious is probably right.

Yet, no matter how accurately you write it or mumble it under your breath, it won’t change the way things stand between you. A poem, let alone a paragraph, is not a magic spell. And the only people who can write those stay in padded rooms, listening to music no one’s ever played.

People will wish you all the success in the world. And then hate you when you get it.

Lately I’ve been too hungover, too stupid, too cryptic, too unreachable, too angsty, too obtuse, too arrogant, too excessive, too tired, too lustful, too mad to give you a good impression of myself. That first night we spent together, in our unavoidable attraction, that is where we belong forever. But soon I’m leaving town, going to a place where I have no place. I just wish you were here in my bed tonight

On days like these, when my brain doesn’t want to form coherent sentences or interesting dialogues, I wish I had a pad of paper and a pen. And I wish it was alright for me just to write down what I wanted to say and show it to people. As a child, when we would pretend that we couldn’t speak, I loved to show what I wanted to express through pantomime or through my words on paper. I wish that this was an acceptable form of communication for someone with a functioning mouth, healthy hearing, and normal societal tendencies. It would be so much easier to get to know people, to express myself to them. There would be no awkward silences.

So if all we have is that glance in the window,
If all we have is till this train stops,
If all we have is till the sun comes up,
till your lift picks you up,
And if all we have is till that day comes,


One day you will be nostalgic for now.