So I dyed my hair pink,

not to make anyone wink,

it was a drunken decision,

I thought I had a vision,

but now,

At this suffocating ambitious hour, I condensate the remnants of a foggy dream, billowing out the essence of what crystallised it.

Precipitating doctrines to designate a truth, padlocked five feet under earthy ground. - a sentimental, melancholic, pandora box.

19 years of abbreviated breaths, adolescence unwillingly compelled to ripen, mellowing greater then juvenile bodies.

A vine continuously sprouting a question, encompassing this late eve’s insomniac, of a contrasting life.

He boldly undressed me with his eyes, even before I spoke to him. When I turned to leave, uninvited remarks followed along the curves of my sides. The holes planted by choice pulsed less then, unsolicited ‘pet names’ engraved on my forehead.

The birth of the idea to unlock my truth, hidden beneath the visage of my frame, wasn’t an intention. Appearance was the key to winning his affection, the main affliction as to whether my clothing was tight enough. The only mutual commonality was our needy thirst, to be wanted by another.

How did I fall to the level of utter disgust, brokenhearted enough to yearn for his disrespect? I was blinded with rose tinted glasses, envisioning an unrealistic, golden coated version of him. A naive girl blighted by the thought, that people wear their hearts on their sleeve.

On this overcrowded carriage I am granted the presence of four anonymous strangers. 

Within the intimate distance of one metre, I am obliged to eavesdrop a private conversation with their other half. 

I can glimpse at your tightly gripped romance novel. 

If I'm bored I'll make up a narrative for them, imagine their home life, create ambitions. 

We'll share a brief contact, a brisk collision, and accidental eye contact whilst you escape your view towards the landscape outside of the window. 

And when they leave, so does our unspoken, one sided, relationship. 

While I sit at an empty table meant for four, maybe if I journey this train, this same carriage at the same time next week, we could pick up where we left off? 

He's a child of neglect, hurting others to project, his disturbance onto you.

He roars in fury, screams louder than any jury, but what is the source of it?

She ran away, she created this dismay, like she always does.

He must be helped, because he can't do it himself, he is too young to understand.