Sometimes, I wonder what you're thinking, or what you were thinking at some certain moment in time, or if you were thinking of me. I wonder how the gears in your head turn, if they're greased and running like a well-oiled machine, or scattered and broken, in need of repair. I wonder how your thoughts would look to me. Not just the thoughts betrayed by your guarded facade every now and then, but the innermost ones that have never been glimpsed, the dustiest ones tangled in cobwebs and old forgotten secrets, the darkest ones that hold your grudges, your hidden contempt, your broken pieces, and the flawed ones securely hidden in the deepest cages of your mind. I wonder if I'll look at you differently, then. Or if I'll look at you less.

Perhaps not, for, I look through a blind perspective and my conscience feeds on paranoia. I can only hold against you the subtlest of judgments and only when you start to be jaded and burned out, or perhaps, too high above the ground.

Sometimes, I wonder if you wonder about me. I hope you do. I hope you could take a look inside my mind, every hidden nook and cranny. You can stay there for as long as you like, but it's haunted as I am haunted.  I hope I could share my loneliness, but that would be unfair, then, wouldn't it? It's my misery, after all. But I hope you could see through my smile, into layers of dried up tears, old ghosts and fears. I hope I could show you how I think. I hope I could show you bits and pieces of me like how I cower when I see lightning strike but at the same time, feel connected to myself with the rain pounding away on my roof and the occasional thunder disturbing the placid disposition of the world during bad weather, or how I never miss the sun even on cold lonely nights when I cry with my shadow in an empty room. Maybe then you'll run away from the monster, that is me. But this world.... it is driven by hate, lies and endless cries, but nonetheless, by the loveliness of life. This world is strange. Maybe you'll stay.


But it's me. It's how I can't let myself melt into your delicate fingers. It's how I can't let the drifting wind carry my voice through your open window. It's how I live in fear of humans being...well, humans, walking away and  straying from the picturesque photograph that was the past, when everything else was said to be better. It's how I can't trust. It's this bitterness I've drowned in and the grotesque creature I've morphed into. It's me.