Blackheath


My mind is working but my mouth refuses to articulate my thoughts. I feel detached. Sociopathic. Over it. I suffer for your sake; because you had asked me nicely.

I tried to explain before the plan half-formed in your mind: the links were not made in my formative years, having been oppressed by bolder men and instructed by the socially defunct. I can hiss with the best of them but I cannot play nice.

But here I sit, pretending my culture does not make me alien. A little awkward, petite and eccentric using the words hetero and homo-erotic in the same sentence.

Feigning interest in a question that would have, years ago, delighted me. Sevas Tra. Prayer Under Pressure of Violent Anguish. Broke. Purple Rain. Pretty On The Inside.

Instead I trembled to remain silent on those words that I can confess on a screen or on paper: "You are being deceived."

And you laughed and talked. Talked and talked. Talked until I cringed and realised that there is such thing as belonging in the world. And of not belonging.