your home is the windowsill.
your elbows occupy the stone,
your hands find your cheeks.
you watch the droplets,
smacking against the window.
you needn't dare go outside,
it's too dangerous out there.
but so is here.
you can hear them from upstairs.
they are screaming.
they're yelling about you.
why, you don't know.
you wish you did.
but they keep going.
and you remain.
you shall till they come back.
they'll ask what you've been doing this whole time and you have nothing to say to them.
you have to say something, though.
otherwise you'll hear it.
all night.
it will impede the happiness.
you'd never experienced a sunny day.
and so the clouds continue to obscure the sun.
you have no chance to see the light.
the storm will persist.
but you see a sliver, a part in the melancholic shroud.
it sticks out in the sky.
it spreads, but all of it's a lie.
you from here, from the ground,
you cannot grasp something so attainable
as light without burning yourself.
you can't take your parents' scolds already.
you close the blinds.
no more.
i say no more.