girl [n.]

Why me?

I'm just an ordinary girl, who swallows loneliness like a bitter pill. I need my medication.
I am destined to be alone and I know it; it's not my choice, it's my make.
I know I will be alone again. I don't want to be dreading the nights all over again, and stay up each time, just so I wouldn't have to wake up in my emptiness once again.

Before you came, oh I was ready!
I was ready like a plane-crash survivor: canned confidence, preserved dignity, salted career plans and parachute restlessness.

Why crash and burn this heart again?
Why mine?

What do you win out of this?
You already know you can win anybody's heart. Why do you care to stir into this charred, bruised and bandaged piece of crap? Does it exhilerate you, make you feel like a winner?
I already told you I can't love. Did you take it personally to think I can't love YOU?
I told you I want to be alone. Did you take it personally to think I want you to stay away from me?

Why?
Leave me alone.
Believe that I don't have any human emotions left in me. I've been drained. Emptied. Shaken. And then wiped clean with a steriliser.

I'm bones. There's no blood or flesh on me. No pulsating muscle. No moist tenderness. No enduring embrace.

Leave me alone.
Don't look at me again.

Mother said it's all in your head

It doesn't have to be complicated. Sometimes something as simple as the smell of a new book, or a particular perfume, or the wet smell of mud, can trigger sharp memories like a childhood day in nursery, or the new year's night in 2000, or rain that you wouldn't hesitate to drench in - that no photos can. Despite the heartrending fact that everything disintegrates into memories sooner or later, we still have to go on creating them, even though memories are just memories. The pulse of cicadas and crickets is very soothing to me. Although not much, it's all I can connect with and make memories with, and hope to feel nostalgic about years later. I keep a soundtrack of night sounds on my laptop when I go to sleep. Other sounds that I love are the rustle of dried leaves in a gentle wind, the horn of a distant train, the howl of winds through windows before a storm, the pitter patter of rain on the streets, the fall of footsteps on gravel, the rumble of clouds before a storm. Because memories are all we really have.