This is the closest I get to writing about
something normal. But still treat it as fiction yah?
~~~ Enjoy (or not)
Everyday you come to the same place I
do. And every day I read your
words. But lately it seems like you are
trying to say something. Something
which you hide behind good humour. Are
you the only one who finds it funny?
It's these little hints that draw me to
you. I want to know if you are like
me? Perhaps we have something in
common. But despite all these codes,
these barely cloaked meanings, I am still undecided. Reluctant to ask you for the truth. Reluctant to be told it was something imagined. Reluctant to be told that I am a weirdo. Reluctant for anyone else to find out.
But still, why would someone joke like
I wonder if you have ever seen the pink
flesh beneath your skin. If you smell
of blood. Does the smell make you sick
to your stomach? If you really have
tried that with the lemon juice. If you
really do use that brand of razor blades you mentioned.
But I'll never find out.
I'll never ask.
It would be inappropriate in this polite
society to be so presumptuous. And you
are older than me, so I can offer you no comfort. I have nothing more than the ramblings of a bratty teenager to
hand. I have no wisdom or insight to
lend you. I know that meeting others
only serves as a reminder of how completely different and alone we all
are. How we can never help each other.
But it passes.
You are 'normal' again.
And I couldn't pick you out of the crowd if