thick-skinned chameleon
jtl. 18 and still barely here.
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I need a new page. I need to make a new diary or something, anything, I need to chop off my hair, give it a haircut, because it’s too old and dead and when things are too old for too long they just become dead and the same, and I don’t want the same damn routine and I’m no computer but the usual daily tasks aren’t obligations but misery penalties for things I’ve always wanted to do but never had the time for anymore, and writing just, writing has been becoming a burden and it never should have been like this before, and the little boy I was infatuated with - his deepened voice with some cracks and the way his heart beats faster when I hold him tight and his happy sighs and he goes to no Ivy League, but there is just something much better about him and just at those moments nothing else can describe how absolutely raw I felt, how my skin kept peeling off and my petals were plucked by an oppressive society and all its underestimation and ignorance and I don’t want to think no more of it, but the itching stopped and my frozen insides feel like functioning again and even though I don’t hear my pulse loudly with his, I know, I know I’m still here, I’m finally back, and yes, it’s corny, cheesy, and quite beany that I claim his heart of gold - I’ve dug many times until I found it, and I can finally grow a new layer of soul skin, finally, at last. I wrote on a new page. Its scent was nostalgic, but caused me to write again, and yes, I still love him even though he may no longer see me with the same eyes that sleep on the white dull hospital bed. Yet sometimes I give his hand a squeeze like before, and his heart rate jumps, I swear he can remember - I’m not delusional, how old am I? 89? No, almost there mister. Well, perhaps you’re… I don’t know. Who are you? I, I know you, please trust me, I can help you find yourself again. Am I doing this wrong? I don’t understand the way you breathe anymore, the way your lungs… the way you used to lightly snore and, I just, I won’t give in, I won’t believe there is rust, there isn’t rust, there isn’t grayness, there is just us, in the dark, until our time is up, but the sun could never illuminate the way you are, you had your own shine, and at least I witnessed that gold you had in you. My pen ran out of ink, my skin now expired, but my greed of your heart will never die, but lay as sour milk. Invalid. Rotten flesh. They called it love, the greatest story of the decade, but this is no light matter - we were only selfish for each other.

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