P.A.O.

I understand not being understood.

I know the feeling of bizarre compassion.

I know the end of every story.

I crave skins and whispers.

I count the dots on the subway floor to avoid thinking of my painful flesh.

I hear sounds everywhere to stop the silence telling me the truth.

I write nonsense in verses to calm down the years of violence and confusion.

I see you through magic eyes to bear the look in your face.

I consistently am inconstant to survive the boredom I taste when I lack enthusiasm. Normally it happens in empty mornings when the light is still cold.

I cover my feet with funny shoes to distract judging concepts and foolish behaviors.

I give imaginary hugs to old people talking by themselves in the subway.

I love them all.

I suffer imagining their lonely lives when windy nights wake them up.

I walk fast to leave behind the thoughts that wake me up every night.

I walk fast to live behind you.

I scream to deaf hearts conjugating wrong verbs to maintain the confusion that allows me to be left behind.

I adore claiming guts and daring rats.

Tell me a secret and the world will know it.

Give me love and I'll laugh like a bird fucking a tree.

Call me dear and I read you your fortune.

Just leave me alone and I stop writing... (lies).