The more I tend to think about it, the more I realise how empty and lonely I am. The more I try to reach my hands out to catch it, the further I walk away from it. Like I'm a cloud, yet not that full of curves and fluffly edges - but I have just as big lack of content. Because what I say is always being put together to be something completely different than what I wanted it to be from the beginning. It's like no one ever really listenes, not even me myself. Words are easy to pervert to something different than what it was supposed to be. Add another of those, and the story is no longer the one it was three seconds ago.


"You need to talk to somebody, tell somebody about that dark, even black, monster inside of you. It's gonna kill you, you know.."
The silence was suddenly touchable and the uncounciousness filled them both faster than ever.
"It's hard", she whispered.
"It's not hard, you have to be honest! If not to us around you, then atleast to yourself. Or the other way around."


To count it all every second passing by, is something hard it's self. And the none-counting is being counted anyway, just to be sure. Tears can never be counted, they always flow into one another, just to mess things up. And sometimes I count you as a tear - someone to mess things up. But I rarely count you as anything.

Every second night I wanna call you and beg you to leave me alone forever. Yet you seem to be a part of the oxygen feeding my lungs every day. And mum always told me breathing is the most inportant thing to do. But she never told me a part of the process can be hurtful and that you can feel like giving up on everything. That's something I've experienced, through my years.

But I never scream, and I rarely ever beg. To say something that you know is gonna last is hard to me. To reveal something deep inside is just aswell hard as humiliating. There are not many individuals surrounding me, who'd understand every word I'd vomit. Which terrifies me, and makes me swallow all that vomit and never let it out. The taste of vomit is one of the worst there is. And it's hard to find the right words, I find it hard to put words on how it all feels deep inside.

Altough I want someone to know, I want someone to understand. I want some kind of magic to strike me, and heal me in just three seconds, I hate waiting. I want to see the change immedeately, or else it just feels like there is none. Or like it's never gonna happen anyway. Seconds are to be counted, after seconds comes minutes and the one after that is way to long to even mention. Yet it's there for me every day of my life. And I have to deal with it, I have to wait and see. I have to count all my countless tears never reaching any boys shoulder. I have to count ever lonely hour of this teenage life, especially in the night. I have to count. Everything.


I'm afraid of being left alone on this ice cold world. Alone forever, not ever have I've tasted the love on some boy's tounge. Not ever have I've been falling so deeply inlove, that I could never climb back up.


"Take me somewhere special!" I said, with so much happiness jumping out of my mouth I almost fell backwards.
He took my hand and said:
"I'm gonna make you happy."

The road we drove on was bumpy and we both laughed and fell from side to side in your little, red car. The sun was shining and so were we. This was the part of our life when nothing really mattered, apart from ourselves. Everything around us was nothing, and we had everying in the palms of your hands. Your brown arms where glimmering in the reflection of the sun. The smell of sweat was sticky, but none of us cared not even for a milli second. The radio told us that a rainy weather was about to burst out, we looked at eachother and laughed. That's the last heart right laugh I can remember that I've had.


Kommentera inlägget här:

Kom ihåg mig?

E-postadress: (publiceras ej)



RSS 2.0