Dubstep Candy

Luring me in with dubstep and the obvious outlines of your lips and coming out with things that taste like europop and hard candy? You have no sense. I know that you are all pronouncing limbs and I am just this piece of awkward shit but you know, I have my own sense of dignity too. You don’t come around hiding in your powder cakes of PAC only to fool more and more doubting adolescent girls. I’m barely two years apart from you.

I hate you, Keling, I hate you.

But you know, dubstep is sacred and I am glad you are not further fucking any more of that. People misuse them too much for me to understand anymore.

Fabric Creases

I have experienced many times the feeling of wanting to be in the place of something else, no matter how humiliating. Now I want to be a piece of machine sewn cloth or leather, crimpled and warily warm from your sleepy hugs. Can my fingers mold honest patterns, the way thin cloth and interior linings make crease marks on your limbs? My mother had warned me of the sickening pain of unrequited love, even more sickening in the realization of sharing it with other muggles near and afar. But I will fold creases to the clothing of your joints, darling I will.

Aug 23, 2013

Self-exhausting

So I figured that you like, you really like exhausting yourself. Like, you prefer burning down in three minutes than savoring your energy for ten. I have a feeling that you really enjoy that feeling when you can't inhale from your nose and you could only inhale from your mouth, all the air cold and dry against the ceiling of your mouth and down your throat, and dry and cold down your trachea and both your bronchi before they enter your lungs. And your heart will always try to fail you, beating too hard, beating too wild, beating against your ribcage as if they wanted to rebel against you. That feeling of wanting to have a new, or no hearts at all. I like it too, somehow. But I hate it the most, especially when I'm running, and my knees squabble as I try so hard to finish the lap, and my knees and my calves will feel warm and stretched in a not-so-nice way, and then they will somehow burn when I finally calm down.

Tell me why am I here writing again. Stranger. Fuck you.

Efficiency

You know, in some sense, I think we share a painfully similar sense of efficiency. Doing exactly what is needed. Working, as much as possible with no strings attached. Speaking only when necessary. Or when asked to. Paying back the left hours of everything--sleep, life... In a sense, I hated myself for not starting my decade earlier so that I could write the way you would stretch, but a lot of people started after me and are better than me. It just kept making the doubts over myself return and multiply. And what you do did not need literacy anyways. I could only handwrite neatly at the age of 9. Eventually, we started our decades at the same age, only you at a faster pace. I hate you, I hate the people that share this same unrequited love with you, I hate the winters and time zones that separate us. I hate you.

Twirls

I started twirling in my room on the nights when I was alone at the warm part of spring. Spring was cold when it all began, but I had wanted to see the twirls ever since my birthday last year. Even though it physically will never change a thing, twirling and moving my limbs slowly is the closest I can get to you. It’s a secret. It’s a secret you can’t wait to spill, but a secret I want to keep to only myself. Our twirls, your twirls I see, are all a secret I can only keep in my heart, for it was my only secret door to you.