existential fabric of time

it took so long

but once i destaturated my life

all the voices started talking again

they whispered all the truths

in my ears

alongside the bustling noise of the city

i can hear the traffic

of all the parallel selves

their thought chains all came to a halt

in ludicrous synchrony

it can’t be that all this is real

that this really is me?

my past my future and my present combined

it’s all the same just stretched out by

time

i cannot bear this life of choices;

being alive is complicity enough

to any crime

Unconscious

I stand some steps away, in the cold, breathing the silence of waiting for my ride.

Some steps away the laughing smugs on faces of three are standing nearby a taxi, hesitant and unconscious. Talking from confidently striding facades. And their stares; unsexual, satirical, and disgusted. Their words travel though the mundanity of their yet another Thursday night and my once-in-three-months gathering with my friends that does not occur so aesthetically for another body sweeping though the hallways, alongside red lockers and white walls.

Unconscious.

No rape or sexual connotations, no.

Their words do not suggest arousal nor victimization; for my little body can not evoke any. Nor can it inspire seduction. And yet I now look at my reflection in skin tight pants, regardless of their irrelevant thoughts.

Tight.

A little too tight.

But repulsive and inexplicable.

Their words; piercing though my ears like the breaking of my hymen as it tears and as it bleeds, inevitably and indefinitely.
And I lay there, drowning in the red debris.
Little. Little pieces shattering.

And they walk and I get in my ride.
And then nothing happens.

The parallel lines do not ever meet again.