The wait for your time to speak grows longer as you forget to listen
So I blanch and I swear that one day they will paint the
hospital-walls with my skin. And then I'll just flake off the wall
like I never exsisted for real. It's when you talk to me like
I wasn't there, you stare nowhere, I think a wall would
make more sense, atleast a wall holds something up, damn it;
I can't even hold myself together.
Getting kissed by boys on the back of the neck
in the back of corridores.
waking up with a scratchy voice after inhaling
(what didn't seem to be) too much smoke.
And I don't even try to get out of that
made-up-bubble, No, I make that world bigger
by falling asleep to the sound of dark, french
voices. I don't understand anything but the word
"oui" but I like pretending: ("it's nothing I would
recommend, but it is one way to live")
I won't ever know how that book ends.