I woke up feeling under the hood. My body's a little sore. I am thirsty. I tried standing up. A little nauseous. Stretched a little. It's 10am. The sun bathing my room with warmth. Bright rays reflected across the yellow curtain.
I looked at the mirror. Nine hours of sleep never gave justice on those dark circles under my eyes. Hair is grungy, still brushed up. Skin taut to touch. Shoulders glow at the light coming from the window. Shadows formed against those Illuminated cuts.
I stared pass through the guy looking at me in the mirror. Feeling a little down on how he looked at me. With disdain. With distaste. I tried to react with arrogance reflected on my eyes. But with no use. I still feel like a shit.
I stumble at the shed filled with random books and a music player. I picked some of the books up. Placed them back. Then there's the photo that I've been trying to forget, now on the floor with its shattered glass.
Then there was blood. Dripping on my fingertips. To a book that I loved. Opened to a worn-out page. Containing my favorite line.
“Slowly I am withering—
Flower deprived of sun;
longing to belong to—
somewhere or someone.”
Playful. How very playful.
Labels: heart, life, original, relationship, self