do you have to go?
i know you have to go.
i have to go.
but do you, really?
you have to go now.
i have to go now.
i have to leave.
do you really have to leave?
you will miss your train.
i will miss my train.
i wish i could stay.
don’t miss your train.
(please miss your train)
i don’t want to miss my train.
(i really want to miss my train)
you can’t stay.
i can’t stay.
i love you.
i love you too.
Wrapped in familiar arms everything was simple. Here it would be easy to stay.
Then I heard your voice, even though it was miles away it pulled me back.
We belong to trains underground, Coca Cola owned wheels and a clock named Ben.
We write our stories on crinkled coffee shop napkins, with cheap jet black eyeliner. Rough at the edges, smudged lines; fairytales but with tragic endings and without sparkling bliss.
Rays of sun through glass windows compete with our clouded minds and rainy eyes. Sorrows braided into galaxies, puddles made into swimming pools.
We are just spilled paint in an art portfolio, the shards in a broken mirror.
She could not help it. The laughter had taken over her being and now she only existed as the uncontrollable exhales. That was all she was; which was far more than she had ever been. A shell or perhaps a mask. Covering up the lack of substance and personality.
It wasn’t her fault; at least not entirely. The world could’ve have been a bit more understanding of her chaotic creativity. But the way it always goes she was branded a lunatic.
At first she’d fight it. Tell people off. Stand up for her beliefs. Eventually she stopped. Her efforts were all for nothing. Realising she would never be seen as anything but, she instead became it. She did not own it; she was consumed. The very essence of her being had abandoned its independence and was now solely an image of what other people saw in her. Their prejudice; most of all their belief that she would never be anything but.
And so it goes. The different become freaks and individuality withers and dies.