bottled monologues - series 8

you,

why?

why are you making me the person that always said i will never be? i don't want this role you dumped to me. i don't need the helplessness, spare me from the inability to choose myself over you.

you make me weak. you break down all my defenses without even wanting to. i am eternally defeated in a game where i pit my sanity against your weight in my life.

am i just this to you now? i am reduced to this?

i constantly convince myself that you are not doing this on purpose, that my knowledge of who you really are can vouch for this alibi as condescending truth. your innocence amidst all these rips through my body like a blunt persistent arrow.

innocence? i'm foolish enough to make them all see that i comprehend matters so clearly but here i am washing your hands and wiping them dry with my very own clothes.

i dread the words that may escape my mouth. i fear that they may wound you and in the end, i will be the one hurting more. i don't know what to do.

don't take the easy way out. don't turn your back. stay.

i don't want too much from you. all i want you to do is listen to what i'm not saying.

me

where i don't belong



i was planted in the middle of a room teeming with faces that neither branded me as stranger nor friend. therein lies the sheer emptiness, the indecision i am cast in---the uncertainty of human emotion.

the gravity resounds.

i yawned and tapped on the antiquated armchair with my half-frozen fingers. i yearned to rupture the silence of myself with each minute movement a spite to the rumble of familiarity that i am not part of.

this breathing mass of voices roars. shrapnels of thoughts, indistinct yet definite, pierce me like malevolent bullets for i am now pinned inanimate by anonymity.

my hands are tired waiting for commiseration.

time drags on and i succumb to the indifference. this is how i survive.

scratching heads

i wrote "where i don't belong" one busily lazy afternoon, just before psychology class. i was sitting on a chair amidst the commotion of my blockmates for that subject. in the back of my head, i prayed for someone to reach out to me, just talk to me, the outsider. i recited the prayer of every anti-social daria who wanted something a bit different from the routine. i guess it was too much to ask for because they all just went along with their own stuff, oblivious.

the situation presented me with a choice. i could have sulked, cursed and pitied myself. instead, i sulked, cursed, pitied myself... and wrote about it. i snickered with delight afterwards.

the root may be bitter but the fruit is damned sweet.