Glass

I love it when a little bit of a drink trickles down the side of a glass.
Slowly, because there’s no reason to be fast.
A tear existing at the speed
of history.
And never at the same pace.
That’s too boring.
I love it when a bit of water slips down the side of a glass,
though I hate shedding one single tear.
Crying should be passionate and meaningful and sometimes
a single tear isn’t enough. you understand me when I say that
I love crying because it makes me feel real.
There’s nothing on this earth, in this universe
that I love more than knowing I am real and
that I’m not just a figment of someone’s imagination,
Thankful that I’m not a part of my own.
something about cheeks wet with saline
and red with emotion.
I’d die if I could live by slowly fading away.
I love romance but I hate it when people romanticise things.
I want life to be nothing more than life itself,
and crying hot tears makes me feel alive.
The people point
and laugh
when I ramble under the pretence of some mustered confidence, some disjointed intelligence.
It has dawned on me though that they know no better than I what lies
behind the castle wall that is my body.
Oh glass, so transparent.
No complications as to what lies inside for one can look and see through it merely with ones eyes shut.
Jealousy makes my body ache as I realise that
I would not give much to be like the glass,
for I would give so much more to become it itself.
A transparent creature.
No strings.
No complications.
Oh how I wonder,
What is it that would cause me such bliss?
Is it really becoming glass,
or is it simply becoming something other than myself?