It’s so hard to stay with me.
I would make you feel lost in the course of time.
I pull you close to me just to push you away.
People flip open my book to discover that the pages
that would bite off their fingers.
I dig very deep in my own wounds.
But I do not feel anything.
This body is breathing, alive.
But is too aware of its timed bomb clicking.
Every second seems to be the end.
Every scene looks too surreal to be reality.
Every person appears and disappears.
These days, I forget that I have a face.
I do not brush; do not wash; do not clean it.
Why do you need to modify a slate, flat in nothingness?
Somehow, on the surface, there are holes.
I pour liquid in it to cool the machine.
I stuff edible objects to expand the deflated balloon.
Temperature does not move me.
Neither do delicacies.
Deprived of good-will from life,
you can always see a ball of alphabets curling like a cat.
It wants you to kick it to prove that it’s kickable.
Or maybe pick it up to see if it’s a ball or not.
But it finds a perfect spot where all distractions are filtered out.
Dormant, eyes wide open, let me stay awake for eternity.
Sleeping is outside my comfort zone.
You may ask me why; I would answer no.
No wonder you’re not interested in me.
I may ask you how; you would answer yes.
Yes, so the question would be thrown back at me.