I feel awkward around you when you look at me with ennuye. Others become bored when they see your vacant eyes. I wish I wasn't the only one who was enchanted.
Looking directly at the sun
I wince remembering when you ask me out the first time. At that moment, my eyes were wide open and my mouth was ajar. That jump, that prance, that decision makes me squint with disgrace. It is like looking directly at the sun.
When will this fog lift?
The dank weather and your bountiful praise shows me nothing. Both are equally opaque and suffocating. I can't see the ground from the window and I can't see your intentions in your eyes. When will this fog lift?
Soot shouldn't be so plentiful
Smoke spews from my heart so furiously my eyes water. Or, am I crying because you broke my heart the way you always do? Soot shouldn't be so painful. Ash shouldn't be so plentiful.
Fingertips
Tingling skin and chattering flesh. Tingling flesh and chattering skin. I don't know what sounds like your hand in mine. My fingertips have needles carefully tucked under the top layer of skin, making a five-pronged pin cushion, a little puppet to keep me from being alone. I draw little faces on my fingertips. Now I can look them in the eyes and they can look in mine.