6th floor

I wish I could date you.

That dyed hair that you carefully tuck behind your delicate ears. Those eyelashes that sweetly kiss your eyelids every time you flash the most beautiful smile, every time you speak—

Ah, yes. Your voice—so remarkable, so exquisite.

Your lips. Sometimes I wonder if the tints you use leave taste on it—like candies. I often see you wearing pink and it reminds me of luscious strawberries. And sometimes red—for cherry. And sometimes orange—oh, the tang of citrus.

I wish I could date you so I could tuck your dyed hair behind your delicate ears when the wind decided to become playful with those soft strands.

I wish I could date you so I could stare at your eyes for as long as I could. Then you would talk about your dreams, your guilty pleasures. I would love to do that with you. I would love to listen to you because your voice is a music to my ears.

And after that date, I would drive you home and you would kiss me and I would kiss you back with our eyes close.

And with our eyes closed, you would ask me to guess the color of your lipstick through the taste of your lips.

The Monologue

For some reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to contentment. You thirst for something that you do not have. You yearn for things that you do not need. You are selfish.

You want complications to feed your imagination with inspirations that will make you write the things that you can’t put into words when you’re walking on a steady road. You think that your gift is also your curse. You need to sin, to hurt, to hate, to embrace what is forbidden, and to put yourself into shame to ignite that passion.

You let your weaknesses defeat you. You poison yourself slowly. You let your demons consume you. You refuse to experience satisfaction because you know that that feeling would end the pleasure of mistakes.

An epitome of a wretched lady. A poignant scene of despair.