Is it really a dry night if your eyes are wet? I find myself here a lot. In this quiet, familiar place; dark wood and red covers. I wasn't aware March was behind us but it is. Not much of a surprise since you catch things late after you ignore the obvious hint painted in big blue letters that i saw you put a drape over.

Say, does it help you? Looking away? I've seen you wish for it, time and again hoping you'd be less perceptive of everything around and you've been downplaying your gift, minimizing it, folding it down to a pebble. You can't. Can't you see that you can't? So stop trying. I'm still waiting for you to embrace your goods as goods and not reasons people run over you with.

It's almost 2 am. My calendar is staring at me, annotated with every thought and feeling i penned and stuck to it. The garish letters in caps spelling u-n-h-a-p-p-y are still the first thing i look at. I meant to cover it with a drawing, a doodle but you see, i can't draw anymore. I wonder if that's why I feel so empty but i know that it isn't it.

My eyes are filling up again, i meant to add no paragraph breaks, no punctuation, no capitalization and formatting, i meant for this to be tear-soaked and grief-stricken mirroring me in some way, i meant to make it hard on the eyes, difficult to read, incomprehensible, fill it with metaphors and words from languages unheard of, so it could mirror me.

I meant for it to be unheard and misunderstood. Say, is it?