I don’t like the feeling of being disapproved of. It nags at me. It makes me pick at my brain bit by bit until I’ve shredded myself almost fully. It leaves me flustered and unsettled. It makes me nervous and impatient. I don’t know how to take it out, I was never a nail biter or a hair puller. That was just not me. When I was nervous or anxious, I played mind games with myself. I call it…nevermind what I call it. It helped me, that was my outlet, you see. That was how I let myself breathe. I obsessed over things. But mostly, I obsessed over people. People I saw on the street. Kids in class. Kids outside class. Perhaps a dentist I will never talk to again. Or a teacher, who doesn’t even teach me. All that and more. I obsessed. And then I wrote.
“All I’m saying is,
you’ll go out,
and expect good things,
You get me.
It’s a raw deal.”
Or at least tried to write. I don’t consider myself much of a writer. I think I enjoy having words come out of my mouth from time to time. But I am more expressive on paper. Because that is when I am really silent. Because that is when I am honest. That is when I know I’m being real. And you’ll realise, that watching me in that moment, is like watching a piece of paper, being consumed by a single flame.
You’ll see me thriving on each breath. Growing, gnawing, growing, gnawing, crawling with excitement and anticipation.
Testing my survival.
It’s like these butterflies are racing, then again, maybe it’s just the tingling beneath my skin.
Or maybe it’s just the twinkle in your eyes and the flutter of your gaze. That never seems to leave.
Never seems to move two inches away from the steady ache of this restless heart.