Down the rabbit’s hole, having a slightly burnt avocado toast and sweet hot tea by myself in a bedroom that you recently left. The four walls are better in crying and expressing sadness than me. The stillness was disrupted by some sort of wailing and tears.
I’m sorry that I can’t save you. You hate museums because you think that everything less of a beauty can’t be immortal. I’m sorry that I can’t save you. You complained so much about acne scars and oily hair, you complained so much about blazingly hot weather and mind-numbingly cold air conditioner.
You cursed and cried and be sad. You hate everything: dry skin, fat short fingers, unevenly colored tan, soft fabrics, cute haircuts. I’m sorry that I can’t save you, I should’ve invited you for a breakfast, with another burnt bread and overpriced cups of coffee. Anything and oh, anything!
The world is too beautiful for you, you said once to me, in a cold tone. You spent so much time in front of the mirror in your bedroom, and when they failed to show you the girl you want to see, you broke them into tiny pieces that bleed your hands. You have a love-hate relationship with the public woman bathroom. There are moments when you hide there to cry because it’ll be too embarrassing to suddenly cry in front of everyone knowing that they will never understand. Knowing that you hate even more to be a burden. Being negative you feel that you don’t deserve kindness. Attention and sweet words are all a lie. You didn’t want to be the negative friend so you said that you need to go to the public woman bathroom to cry, alone, and lonely.
Sometimes there’ll be messages asking where the hell you have been, sometimes there will be none. Sometimes the messages make your chest tighten in an indescribable way, make your tears flow even more like a river, like a flood. There is this happiness and hope that somebody cares about you and you want to meet your friends again, that they will be there no matter what. They won’t care about the acne, the thin oily hair. So you braced yourself to go out, messily trying to cover the tears with toilet tissues.
You passed the gigantic mirror, where so many beautiful women lined up to fix their makeup, smiling looking all beautiful. You passed it, not glancing looking for your reflection, knowing that you’d hate it because only the dark screen of your phone that makes you seem presentable.
Everything is a whirlwind catastrophe. Nobody can save anybody and nobody cares about anybody but those who are pretty or probably dying. You are none. You are crazy, self-hating woman. So negative you feel like you should be gone that people can have a better picture.
I felt disgusted, I want to rip the cover off of everything. It hurts that you can’t see what I can see. And I was left alone in a bedroom that you’ve left, listening to thousands of records of viola being played in a soft yet menacing melody. I was left alone with your collection of books on the shelf, some are still left unread, while some had the bookmarks in the middle of it. If only you can see what I can see. That you are so so so much more, so much than those oh-you-so-hated crooked smile and acne scars and oily hair. You are so beautiful and I love you and I should’ve said it sooner but: Do you want to have breakfast with me?