December

 

(photo credits to: Vhea Belarmino)

~*~

A black veil surrounded the sky.

I sighed, twisting my fingers around the locks of hair. Dragging  myself out of the position I was in, I stretched my arms above my head, seeming to capture the endless display of dots as the stars winked attractively at me.

I stared at my hands; they were shaking uncontrollably.

I glanced back at her. My jacket hugged her curves just at the right places. Her eyes showed no sign of gratitude of what I just did. They were black orbs burning as they stare darkly at the heavens.

Ungrateful bitch.

She should be thankful. If not for me, she would be crawling alley after alley, hugging herself in the cold wintry air.

I crouched, facing her. I twirled her hair again, forcing her to look at me. Her mouth pointed at my own.

The warmth breath was gone.

“You’re welcome,” I told her, pulling the knife off her chest. I tugged the jacket closer to her body, “And Merry Christmas.”

Through the Looking Glass

One of the many things I struggle with is my self-confidence. I don’t want to expose all my feelings out into the open because I’m afraid nobody will appreciate them, or worse– understand them.

I am not a book you can read in one go, probably. Let’s just say this: I’m the whole goddamn library.

Maybe this is not even me speaking. A lot of unconscious thoughts buzzing in my head. Mixing together. Forming a flavor of contrast. Sweet. Sour. Bitter. Probably even salty, with tears.

Oh, let’s cut the drama.

I don’t know what I should feel right now. I want to smash this screen to a thousand little fragments. But I want to embrace it because it’s probably  the only thing I have right now. It’s listening to me, letting itself be poured with words that hung like dust in the air.

I want to be understood. To be listened to. To be heard. To be recognized.

To have my own identity.

But who makes my identity?

Me? Or the people who view me?

But there’s only one place I feel really most comfortable with. Not here. Not there.

But within.