I’m A Very Sorry Person

When sometimes things go out of hand, and I lie back against the not so comfy seat, with the safety buckles on, because they’ll slap you a fine of RM300 if you don’t, and get so nauseous and claustrophobic, with iron sides closing in, closing in.

Sometimes I get jealous, when I can’t draw as well, can’t write as well, as unwell as I think I do. And I hate myself for it, because these two things are the things I love doing best, and when there are those with better, better. Ah.

I like doing work, I like doing stuff you’ve placed upon me, but I do not like the expectations that follow, because I do all in my pace, I do all that I can, and when I cannot fulfill that tower that you’ve constructed on me, I flail, I break things, I scream. Alone, where no one can hear me, and I smile and I apologize to you.

The thing that I hate the most, the thing I’ve long not heard, for a long, long time. Is when there are screams and yells, and violence, and sounds of skin upon skin – not in a nice way – pushing, grating. I pretend not to want to understand, I pretend not to be listening, I pretend to know nothing, like I’m just a kid, without knowledge of the real world. I pretend that I’m not huddling, hugging myself in a corner, wishing, wishing. Praying.

I wonder if that dream was one from the Devil, or one from my heart. Because my worries and fears all came pouring out in the deep, deep sea of doubt.

When I’m done. I wonder if any of you will continue to see me as me. Or see the me with the facade, and never know what I truly am. Like so many of you. Like so many of you who do not understand.

And always think that you do.

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