ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ speaking out to strangers is a chore, best described by painful above all adjectives; the fright-littered path of your eyes and voice are both distinct, all dismay seeping through the cracks of your being like liquid out of a broken vase, amateurishly put together and filled with water that’d never keep itself in ( not anymore! shattered things never go back to the way they were ). your point at the bag by your legs, the tip of your index finger almost entirely chewed up — the only thing keeping the flesh together is a thin, worn-out bandaid, soaked and ugly. you hide it, then, embarrassment blossoming in your chest. ( that’s disgusting, thirty three! )
ㅤ ❛ can i — ❜ you choke on your words : what you want to say is stuck in your throat, blocking air. it takes you a while to collect your thoughts and form a sentence, however mangled. ㅤ ❛ help me … can you help me? with this, i mean. ❜