And now I feel at one with the rain.
I hang my hand from the open window like a broken umbrella and feel the water. Sweet smell of burning. And I am confiding in this stupid book again. I have all the friends I could ask for, and still a pink pencil and oxford lined paper. I look up to where the wall meets the roof, but I can't breathe, so I let my face drip into my hands.
My tears hit the page, which sounds like the pages creaking, which sounds like the bathroom door which sounds like rain which sounds like footsteps which sounds like the clock, which sounds like my fingers slipping on the wet pencil.
I lick a tear from my lip, which was obviously some sick joke, thank you eyelids.
I feel like a light bulb.
I feel like going to hospital, and only having to look at ceiling tiles, four nurses, and a doctor with a blue shirt and a red tie. Paralysis like parentheses, either side of you worrying for me.
I saw a boy who looked a little like you the other day. I still stopped and stared. Ev