dismantled

Lost I was born; lonesome I remain. I am lovesick of freedom from a cage my loneliness ironed. I wasn't born with all thighs and limbs, but I am with angry hands. It's yearning for something I cannot name—I cannot define. I burned all the pages I crumpled, so it doesn't leave traces that humans were created for this sort of suffering. I cannot lose myself in a world that tells me there will be no another life. If all of this was a dream, I hope someone could wake me up. I remembered when these eyes were defined so beautifully, like book covers, but no one dared look at it when it started to stare blankly. 

I abandoned all the "almost" I came across along the streets, because maybe if I stayed out of love, life would give back as good as I give. In the jungle of crowds, I disappear; in the night of fun, I say my farewell silently; and even with myself, I wish to say goodbye quickly and easily, without making too much noise. I crave a touch somewhere no hands could ever reach. Promise me there are places nobody could ever come, for I don't take pleasure in being found—where I don't have to pretend I understand—where there's a soul that can be seen in me. Put it to rest because this body gave no pity to a child like me.