Non sense

Building another layer of cellophane on my cocoon; the air is full of spikes. Then I shrink wrap every syllable, for the words have blades. Empty promises have cut me right open and yet the truth doesn't always serve us good. I like my espresso hot, strong and raw. My happiness, gratitude, anger and pain are real. "It is sure that things are to be better, such conviction pulls me up from bed every dawn. And I need you." It is not me you need, it is the idea of me, the idea of a perfect being stands by your side as you rise and fall, but you don't know me. "I need you too." It is not you I need, it is the identity of you, a piece of you that ultimately separates from the rest because I know you. My idea and your identity are to be happy-ever-after, on theory, fair trade. It is never easy to put things in black and white. I look at certain things with tainted glasses, but it wasn't me who filtered my vision. Pincering a small hole on my cocoon, I am suffocating. I pace back and forth in this paradoxical dimension, prefer boots to sandals, and this is not me.