The chipper voices of my neighbors seep through the walls of my bedroom and bang against my ears, breaking my lonely intimacy and insulting my cochlea with the noise of a thousand rumors. Their words shake my thoughts awake to prowl about my head between my ears, and you slip in between the changing of the guards. Strangers are easier to hold for me in this world of sand-people, because I always know they will slip from my fingers-- I can prepare to never expect anything from someone who I know will be gone. By contrast I've built mazes from buckets and bowls, spoons and coffee mugs, the palms of my hands, trying desperately to cling to the ones I wanted not to lose. Hundreds of grains have slipped away despite my efforts and I punish myself every time. But the irony is that I never realised the cracks and creases that my favorites fell through were lined with my own subconscious and the pain I placed upon my own soul. Strangers are easier to hold, and I find comfort in being left because of it. I don't trust others to love me and so I've gathered a tendency to look for signs of early departure, because it's easy. When my fears are confirmed I push. What if I look for love?
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