He was the kind of boy who was so nice, that falling in love with him hardly felt like falling into a trap. He would smile and raise an eyebrow. ‘Don’t tell me you’re mad, again?’ And you would shake your head. It would never even occur that maybe there was a reason everything he did ended up hurting you.

He was the kind of boy who would change the subject when you were sad. ‘I can’t deal with your emotions,’ he would say. Then he would shut your mouth with his, and after that nothing mattered because his hands would do all the talking.

He was the kind of boy who would wrap a hand around your wrist and explain that he was keeping you safe. ‘You’re lucky to have me.’ And you sure felt lucky. ‘But you can’t keep getting upset like this. I can’t handle it. Girls like you are crazy.’ And you sure felt crazy too.

And he was the kind of boy you could never see properly until you’d gotten far far away. And what you saw there was an iron cage masquerading as affection. And what you’d feel would be relief and sadness and anger, that anyone could take your gentleness and twist it and use it against you. And you would see. You would see how he was ‘that’ kind of boy.

—  S.Z. // Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #154 // Sometimes he’d say, ‘talk to me, I want to know what you’re thinking’ and I’d try to explain. But after a while I realised he just wanted to know what I thought so he could shoot me down. So I stopped talking so much and he started complaining that I was getting too quiet.
I fear I’ve gone mad. I am enamored with the temblor of my pale hands that are intertwined with rays of green and blue. Green and blue that pound red. Red that washes over my insides. Red that taints the white when the razor blade sets it free. And then it’s the brown. An ugly brown colored patch that conceals the red and contrasts the white. The white that turns from creamy milk to golden sun-rays which flow and cascade down the white in delightful fragrance. The gold that daringly and occasionally kisses the pink. The soft luscious pink that conceals the words and keeps in or throws out the thoughts. The pink that’s stained with a touch of brown; just a dot, a ship in a vast full ocean of pink. A sea at the feet of a hazel colored sky. A sky that has been condemned to night. Night that’s Black. Black that turns out the lights. Lights that gave life to the colors. And when the light has succumbed to the darkness, there’s gray in what used to be multicolored.