When my body had just been brought into the light of the sun,
it was like that:
vulnerable and easy to be loved.

I could effortless fall into slumber.
Untill when I found myself alone with strange thoughts.
Loving is tortuous.

My skin feels so susceptible to outside stares,
it suppresses a number of muscular activities,
such as resting, letting go, breathe.

Breathing, the precursor of a voice attempting to express itself.
Breathing, that has neither tongue, nor jargon.
A static wheezing that is freed when I dance house

or when he hums.
I had to steal words from a song
beacuse I don't have any.