Which is to say you try to be what you did not receive.
Maybe because you were always an unlovable person from the start, the kid whose favourite toy car was snatched away but mother said it is good manners to not say no so you let the kid have your share of happiness, or
Because you would hate to see more people grow distant.
You eat the food clean until you can see your reflection in the plate so that it takes less time to clean it.
You write in a less cursive writing wishing people understand it better, you don’t twist yourself in sleep so that the bed does not hurt much and you walk underground through the tunnels so that people above have more space to walk, you cut down each and everything you come across so that they could never reach you
You are flipping the pancakes to burn both the sides when you realise you don’t know your favourite colour.
You open the box of crayons with 50 shades in front of you- both dark and light, pink the colour that guy in art class painted his skin with, light orange the colour that art teacher told is the colour of skin but yours wasn’t and it didn’t matter, red the colour your friend liked so every gift you bought them next was in the same shade, black the colour your mother was and purple is your brother’s tattoo which he hides from the parents and somehow all colours you know are from people so you go back to the kitchen where you hide yourself most days, it’s okay to not have a favourite you tell yourself, it’s okay to not choose for yourself.
Waking up with the thoughts telling you it cannot get worse and you go to sleep whispering it will never get better. So this is an entire cycle where you cut the branches of the trees but they grow back again, you burn them, cut the roots, put tapes so they could never be green and you are a forest fire which burns all things alive and growing.
You love all things but they don’t love you back. You don’t wait for love anymore, you know it was never yours to begin with, you are an empty vessel dripping for all people who come to you, you find it odd when you ache in the chest, maybe it was the punches you gave yourself yesterday, or the punches they gave you five years ago.
It rained and there are puddles on the road. You go outside, it is your face, the face you sleep with and the face you hate, you step on it but it is still there, you step on it harder and you fall through the hole.
You are falling and falling there seems to be no end you know you are going to hit something somewhere but the wind feels nice, your hands float free for the first time in a while it feels like you are being born again, you go around and somehow fall in the puddle again, you step on it and you are falling. You want to write yourself something which is not a eulogy but you go to sleep instead, miserable again.
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