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.