You live like a back-to-front knee-high pair of white school socks. You walk in a world where footsteps touch the heavens and your fingers are left to trail across rays of sun that burn until your tips are red raw from heat and light and other kinds of energy that scientists haven't discovered yet. Solar. Potential. Nuclear. Scorching, and your hair falls into seas so deep that your eyes find creatures you never knew existed and giant squids (more giant than the most giant squid that lies lonely in a museum, cold and dead) get tangled in hair so red and yellow it clashes too bright with the blue. It gets darker the further down you go, and it's a navy sort of black as far as your eyes can see. You wonder what it's like even further down, where your split ends float. Maybe you can't see a thing. Maybe it's hot. Maybe your hair fell so far it got locked in the earth and when you try to wake yourself up from this and lean upupup and out, you'll get caught, and strain, and tear your hair from your head and leave it so that seathings can make homes of it the way birds do with shedding dogs'.
It's become a case of not you or me, but of you or you or bubbles that escape your nose from laughing too much, from taking too much, from being persuaded too much and letting me(you)(us) down too much. It's you or hysteria, in which I might be a part of but maybe a part you despise, maybe a part that is willing, but I don't know because when you whisper in my ear you tell me nothing at all. Words to you are like memories, things I'm already aware of but already distorted by time and biasness and things that crawl through your brain for twenty minutes before you need more. It's sickening. You're sickening. I hate it. And yet...words dribble from your mouth in such sweet stupidity that no one can hear but they try to listen, anyway. Because words from your tongue have a rather concerning effect on most people - inexplicably soothing and overpowering, sauntering from one ear to the other like they have all the time in the world. Within seconds, you're quiet. And it's sad. Your presence, almost, is enough - a picture paints a thousand words, but even so, if I could listen all day I would. Even if everything you said was nonsense, even if I didn't want to listen, I would.
You live in a world where the sky is orange and the earth is made of coral seas, rouge earth, flowers blooming in black and white because a greyscale is just too taxing. You dress in neon colours even when pastels are in-season, and dancing jitterbugs and loose twirls when everyone else shimmies and grinds and shakes their fists. You're like a lost end in the middle of tightly wrapped stitches who look the same, talk the same...they're different to you. Indifferent to you. And yet in the late hours of early morning it's just you and them left, sharing sweetness in the form of falling down throats and traipsing round the body once more. You soak in misery when your temperaments are at their highest, and I don't understand it, I never did, but I think I understand you and I thought that would help but you change and you think and you see things I can't and then you shake hard like something's terrifying you and I wonder if it's me.
You live and you die at once, you're living like it's so amazing to live when you're killing yourself because you don't want to die. It should have been easier. You should have been better, because now you're getting worse. And worse. And worse. And this time there's no parallel, no way to make out you're getting better, because it's wrongwrongwrong and there was never a way I could fix it, anyway.