Words are useless when I can't look straight into your eyes, but I still insist on that. There's nothing that I can really do anymore and the world is so goddamn gray because I don't remember what your voice sounds like. In my chest, floating in deep waters, there's thousands words I want to spit out, most of them being a enormous amount of “How are you?”, “Did it hurt you as well?”, “Tell me what you've being doing since you died”. I died too, but that's not important. Your face has always been a book in a language I can't understand; nobody in the world can understand, but I was foolish enough to hope that one day you'd teach me it. You didn't, but I still want to remember what your voice sounds like. Legend says Odin gave up one of his eyes to acquire more knowledge, and I'd give up so much more — so fast — to stop the expansion of this black hole inside my body, so undoubtedly, cruelly devastating, that you'd never believe it. Maybe it's time to stop reading things I can't read; I just wrongly translate the words to what I want to hear and yet even in my daydreamings you can't comprehend me. Suddenly everything is on fire and of course it's my fault, I'm the only one in the room.
The fire never reaches where I'd like it to, do I have to defenestrate myself to be noticed by one of my fates? I should be in the streets, where people at my age always are; mixture of bodies and heat and struggle, but there's nobody to grab my hand to prevent me to drift away, so what's is the point. I make so much noise, I know, I'm sorry, if you manage to bring my self back to my old body (any body you want, your body maybe) I swear I can stop crying. Every tear is a bullet that traveled up inside my chest and drips down my face; i can taste the gunpowder, it's disaster waiting to happen.
Follow my trail for a second and please look back with me to see if we can reminisce the people we were before the world punched us in the face. I remembered the old me in a convenience store and I almost looked up to share a thought, to say I'm so, so sorry. Almost, I don't really think I'm entitled to that. Almost, I don't know if I'll ever get another chance. Perhaps, my head is finally accepting it's miserableness and the loneliness that comes with being the way I am, I swear this is not a overreacted drama. It's not that bad, to be honest. I think that we, as human beings, are made to dilapidate sooner or later; how can we do this to ourselves, however that doesn't stop anyone. We shall go back to the stellar dust we came from; I just happen to be closer to that than you. I'm closer of anything that isn't you, or my old self, or this reality.
Admitting that I still want a hand clutching my heart is pitiful and I wish I could hate myself just a little less, just enough to have some energy to fight for my way. This path is nothing that horrific, I just make it more unbearable that it has to be; at some point the subtle statement that it's what I deserve became definitely clear. So I turn my instincts to the people I still care about, and only the Universe knows how terrible it is how I nonchalantly use them as a scapegoat. Part of me wants to care so much about what you have to say and it's just shameful that I don't. Don't get me wrong, I still would take a bullet for you and all those things you don't take seriously when I share my thoughts. The bullet, all the heavy weights, I'll do it even though you'd give me a look that acknowledges my true intentions, but it's the only thing I can bring to the table. Yesterday, the stranger in the mirror told me that not a single soul could hold my hand for too long; I don't care too much about of the expected rejection, I said and I laughed and the gods laughed. We all know what we do to ourselves, but I wish I didn't. You do and I still can't read your face, but I hope I'm transparent enough for you to see I'm going to foolishly love you until the universe decides to reboot itself.
As a matter of fact, the universe is a strange place to be, however there's no other place to escape to. At least it always rain when I'm too lonely; an attempt of kindly remind me that my body isn't the only body in the world. No one really believes that I always know when it's gonna rain, but in the long row it doesn't get under my skin. At a young age, I thought that being aware of the things I was capable to do was a unlocked achievement, when in it's inglorious truth is nothing but a burden. The nihilist poets I read in the past seemed lost in their own minds; little do my old self knew that I'd meet them in this place where the sun doesn't shine too brightly; only in the slightly darkness resides a power of self recognition. As long as it hurts, unashamed we barf words, memories that the others forgot, feelings we intrinsically fear to voice out. It's too dangerous to be left unrestrained, but nothing in this world belongs in a cage. When the weather gets on it's knees in front of me, I'm always surrounded by all the persons I could become; I'm too greedy and I wanted it all. Do you think you'd like one of them? I'd let you choose if I could, I don't trust myself. I'm sorry about all this rain and I'm sorry that I can't unlove you just as much as I can't love my vessel, sadly you can read that in my face. The thickness of my skin is almost completely gone, I'm afraid that nothing much of me will remain if that is something to lament about, but I see you even when the world has no colors at all so it's okay, that's okay, it's okay; that's what my good days are made of.