My compulsive need to fully own and control can be seen in all the clothes that hang in my closet, others hanging shyly with tags still dangling from their necks as if it were their names. My strange habit to stare, admire and embrace as though I am praying away old wounds is evident in the countless times I open my closet when I return from work, ensuring that everything is as I left it, closing half open boxes of vacuity I kicked aside as I rushed for work in the morning with my hair still yawning yesterday’s blues, believing that I belong to them as they belong to me and hoping that they like staying with me as much as I long for them to never rip.
I have never been punctual, if anything is ordained as it is so why should time matter I always wonder but I do want to be a better person in the way I handle arguments and in the way I sing praises to beauty, songs I have never sung to myself. My neurotic desire to wholly own and control is seen in the many times I have dusted dirt of my favourite jacket, holding her down inside my thighs, embracing her, hoping that’s the last time they ever dare make her cry, else they will have me to play with.
I wish hearts were like the clothes that hang helplessly in the closet in my room, I wish it was possible to fully possess a human being because I have dismally failed to own up to my ever blazing rage with the world and everything in it but we all know how impossible that is, but my desire to control the flesh is evident in my endless attempts to make everyone behave as I like, the need to want them to speak a certain way and to utter words only pleasing to me and that has done nothing but tear me even further away from my skin than my bra that lost one of its hooks because it was either just too loose or rather not strong enough to hold on to my demands and pleasures.
I have always had a sacrificial heart but I hid it in the gutters that estranged me and my ‘used to be’ friend, whom I only speak to when I bump into her (God forbid) but many times I hope I never do bump into her in case it might be obligatory for me for force hello out the small gaps in my teeth and to embrace her like I care to know her, which I do not. I don’t talk to strangers and I don’t like confrontations, they reveal more of myself than I want to offer the world, I find myself gushing out more insults than good vibes. I am illicitly offensive and not everyone appreciates that hence I am more inclined to keeping to myself more than I let out.
I should never let out, I have secrets sitting at the contours of my mouth waiting to burst the sanity and civility out of me, I can’t be that reckless with my life and what it has revealed to me. I am trustworthy. I have become without grumble, everybody’s confidante and so I have learnt to keep closed in my darkness and have pledged to tell myself the secrets I am tempted to let out and I have become the only way out of myself and I am starting to enjoy it more than I actually like crying over it.
I think I pleasure in captivity as can be seen in the boxes of shoes I still keep in the closet, to keep away dust and to protect, I have been told that I have the heart of a mother, my girlfriend always tells me that, telling me she has never seen anyone who prides herself in making other people smile like I do but I think she’s lying, I have always thought of myself as more of a sadist than anything else.
Sometimes I enjoy building houses more than I enjoy staying in them, I like to sit outside the gate admiring how well the roses have turned out and measuring the distance before sadness turns into laughter in the faces of the passers-by, it’s never as quick of a transition as I would like it to be, sometimes ice creams and chocolates and more hugs and kisses leading to possible love making are used to lessen the tension. This beggar’s and ass licking (sometimes literal) act is usually called making up which is not necessary if someone has fully forgiven you. I never decorate the houses I build; I believe that inborn beauty can never be enhanced that any actions to modify them is always a waste of time. We are as we see the world and we cannot ‘make-up’ what we are if we are not.
I enjoy sharing jokes more than I actually am able to laugh, my sense of humour is lethal but it chases the awkwardness away so I keep it. I hate stand-up comedy shows, I feel there’s more obligated laughter than the actual cracking up of self and I hate being used. Anyway I can crack myself up, literally. I suppose I was crafted differently from the exemplary average person who drinks 8 cups of water a day when I would rather drown myself in the food of my choice that I most of the time cannot afford, but only those who truly know me have borne witness to this shortfall of mine that I would prefer hidden beneath my late father’s old suitcase.