Alice

Had two girls but one disappeared
jealous
They both cut
You need to stop this
I'm just me. I can't stop. But you can
Give a jar of Her skin
You're the reason why I'm like this. You're more naked with her

We were in the box again. With air so stagnant it grew heavy, holding us inside. There was a window we never looked out of; windows had always framed pictures too beautiful to accommodate the both of us together. There was a door, but to us it was the smallest window we ever saw, flashing the most beautiful images - painful in its captivations. So I chose to only look at you, you who were far removed from any picture. Wherever you went you were elsewhere; I could hear the echoes in your lungs, you were breathing in a different air. I could imagine the lighter steps you take in your dreams, as I witnessed your body fight its rest, predicting nothing. You were exactly what you looked like, entirely complete in one body - my absence couldn't threaten. A body so full within itself, bound beneath a skin that had stretched so thin and tight, as though fearful of what it could no longer contain, existing just to surrender. From the beginning I knew you were never meant to be seen; you were too complete on your own. Too shiny. You knew I would drain all else so your light never goes out, and you should have known the worst thing you could do was to let me.

Recently all I have been faced with is a profound clarity of having/ feeling nothing, which binds me to certain degree of practicality quite pertinent for some kind of socially acceptable normalcy here... I think. So every now and then when I receive just a glimpse of any one thing, it engulfs me entirely to distress this said practicality, to leave me on every other curb and I'm heaving and I'm left there. Because practicality.