barefoot in the rain
it's too cold to speak into payphones without trembling. it's one of those nights when the whole world seems to be the colour of smoke. I am screaming even though I know nobody will hear me. I press my face against the window glass and it's cold enough to feel exposed, but not cold enough to want to stop.
it's like the r-rated movie I watched when I was ten years old. I wanted to scream but my own swollen fingers were covering my mouth. now I am pushing two fingers into my mouth like the one time I pressed my palm into the shower drain. I wanted to be sucked in. I wanted to fall out. I wanted to be in a place where it was raining all the time.
time may have made me bonier, but I'm still sitting here with my fingers against the window of the telephone booth, and there's a boy standing out in the rain, but he looks happy. it's been so cold for so long that I now almost enjoy it because I like knowing that I could leave but that I never actually do.
he's the ghost I never should have even