Through my rentless murmurs I recite of this lingering loneliness, I am a perceived hypocrite. Constantly in comparison, constantly withdrawn. Just like how every neuron collides under your skin, the collusion of my commitments and desires have spawned more than confusion…
Eight months ago, I kissed a boy who had a mouth of a demon, a touch like matches and a grasp on me so strong I was heavily weighed down. His sudden absence and his silence had sharper blades than any words thrown at me. I couldn’t save or remember the solitude I once knew.
Now, the hardest part of calling someone your own is realizing how well you’ve learnt to be alone. I can’t help but get greatly paranoid with the incessant buzzing of the phone, I refuse to exchange one night of romantic gestures and staying interested means lasting a quarter of a month at most.
Has it really come to this? Keeping identities a secret because getting attached means losing part of yourself in the process? Some argue that I’ve built up a sturdy iron panel that puts me in an untouchable position, the response; I am a Wanderer -free spirited, young and ambitious. It’s like walking on egg shells or playing with fire most of the time but you won’t know what living means if you think breathing justifies it all.