There is a kind of madness, that travels through your system, lumbering in the shadows where you didn’t know your blood reached. When you add certain salts it disappears into the wood, it makes steam, and strangers and those stranger devour you alive like they own the very toe nails you’ve had ripped out during your invitation into madness.
Madness is a touchy topic, some tread over it like insensitive bastards squelching new born leaves, but who ever cared for herbs except for cooks and herbologists. I am Suzanne, because I have touched your body with my mind, and yet no one will write about my disjointed reality because I’m not pretty and white. Who would have thought brown girls have degrees of comparison.
How many times have I said it in my mind and not aloud? How many people have left me as my tongue grew numb in my mouth? What am I crying about? The tutsis and the hutus I read about? The stupid Rostovs in their poverty? Am I like Natasha unable to see who loves me? Ha. Me Natasha. Natasha was talented, I’m just a dark smidgen of dust. If I drown in river Styx, will I join Jack the Ripper or the people who set up religion? I watch ignorance, I hear the best minds of my generation die under the growth of the pathetic psuedo poets. I want to be Lana del rey even if she sings songs on autotune, because she found a way to let go of her pain into her words. My pain is stuck in my throat, suffering insecurity complex in the face of the suffering of the world. Whoever heard of pain having feelings? I know, I speak to my feelings, being isolated from the very people I could curl up into. Being silent is an affront, I learnt to late. Even when you were trying to absorb their amazingness in the silence. I stare into nothing, howling into the night full of images and insecurities. It’s day time somewhere in the world, yet all they ask me is my age sex location. I don’t go online anymore. I’m afraid of meeting the predators. I am afraid of the world, with their meanness and angry scars. I am afraid of being caught, of finding my feelings to be real.
I’m a masterpiece, just one which is burnt because it came from a Jewish head. My inheritance is on my skin, on my stature, in my bank balance. I belong to a country where women and cattle are synonymous. I come from a country where everyone tries to hard. I come from a hole of culture and pseudo intellectualism. I come from a city of baggage and train station beggars, I’m from a world which burns it’s residents alive and cages animals and criminals.
I live in a planet where they worship the clay and the sky, and behead Christians, and Muslims and Hindus and the minorities. I come from a place where out of 40 seats I can contest for only twenty, and a 92℅ means you’re worth pretty much nothing. I come armed with an inheritance of loss, of disenfranchised youth spending their youth chain-smoking ganja to escape the madness their grandfathers had created. I come frustrated, yet I find nowhere to go, only an ache in my limbs, every second my limbs grow old.
I watch them air spanking in a theatre and censor deadpool, I watch the gruesome mask of politics and deceit and I’m what- just nineteen years old.
I hear of 10year old rape victims and men burnt for touching a cow and rumours of The prime minister of UK fucking a goat.

I remember seeing a man die after being fucked by a horse, and I hear sad music about the one that got away. I play with fire and hide the fact that I am attracted to women. I lie to men before they lie to me, I preserve aches like they are good dreams.

I listen to jazz, blues and crazy funky pop, edm and then some more indie pop. I am a fresh man, a newbie, a Wonderboy, staring wide eyed while rum dissolves my bones.

I am Hewlett Packard and weakness, a heavy laptop and a man in duress. I am nothing and a beautiful drum beat. What is it about men, they get so cranky if you tell them you’re not interested. Yet maybe you are, but you are broken and it’s better if they don’t see, so you swallow your pride and let them walk over your dreams.

I want to kiss someone, only to feel lips that aren’t those of a liar or a junkie, I want a little bit of love,but if I get it I’ll probably just throw it away.
Midnight’s children waits in a corner, begging me to lose myself but I don’t want to. I’m tired of living someone elses fantasy, when mine is a barren dream.
I love your child, but I want mine, don’t you see?
My biology box stares at me, but I don’t think of self harm. It reminds me of the stupid question they always ask “why did you study science if you wanted to pursue English.”
Because I wanted to know.
Is that so absurd? Is that too heroic? Too absurd? That I wanted to know how my heart works and how an atom looked?
Is it so bad that I wanted to understand planks constant, vectors and cannizaros reaction just for the heck of it?
Does it appal you too? If you held my college application form in your hand would you reject it because I didn’t have history?
Is it wrong if I loved English and biology?
Is it wrong if I learnt history from John Greene?
Is it wrong, that I loved girls and I didn’t really know how to speak? I stare at the world, apathy on my shoulders and I’ve given up even before I began, it’s just so sad.
If I was watching myself I’d tut and move onto more interesting specimens.
I’m noone and I can’t feel my teeth. If no one hears, everyone heard.
If everyone heard, noone did right?


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