go. get out. leave me alone.

stop screaming into my ears with a voice you don’t know how to use. stop clawing at my chest with nails that you don’t trim stop

enveloping

me with your power and your passion and your courage. i didn’t ask you to come here. i didn’t ask you to meet me, i didn’t ask you to add me, to see me, to laugh at me, to know more about me than you should have. i didn’t ask you to say what you said, to say the jokes you don’t remember because you were too drunk and i was too sober.

were you drunk? were you? or were you pretending to be? have you ever thought, for a moment, that maybe, just maybe what you were feeling was not just an aura brought on by one shot too many but maybe, yes maybe, it was

something? anything? whatever thing, i don’t know.

my head is a balloon, a fragile one, that’s full of thoughts and sentences that you shoved between my ears on ‘accident’ and the letters, the letters started by thudding gently against that soft rubber until the punctuation and the t’s and l’s got sharper and faster and more dangerous and now the balloon is about to

pop.