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lack of love

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Outside the open window  the sorry sight of a tree encircled with rambling weeds  a dark spot in the gloomy,  obscure landscape  No one to clear of its weeds  No one to prune it No one to water it  No one to love it  Abandoned by the ones  who once planted it  His boney limbs stretched out as if to grab human flesh jolted by the blustery, November winds Crawling millipedes, oozy insects with glowing eyes and vast antennas  plague the leafs tearing them to shreds  Suctioning and digesting every single remaining drop of life  Thick black liquid pours down the fragile truck,  like an infested, nasty wound straining the corp  It reaches the drained out, thirsty roots who slowly grope their way on to the crusty surface, not being able to hold the tree upright any longer  In the bleakness of this starless night,  the tree reminds of a forgotten monstrosity,  enraged with his neglection,  on the verge of claiming feeble souls  Meanwhile the surrounding nature echoed  with the sharp pain of a
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lighter-girl

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I always keep a lighter in my bag. Always. Besides of practical purposes like burning down houses and corpses in any time needed, there is more to this little habit. Light is not only meant for me. It is meant to be transmitted, it is a breath of energy, it is in its nature to change forms and never go out.  My first thought of a lighter is a shallow and almost helpless romantic one: it is around midnight or long after, I am with my friends or alone in the asleep city, listening to the loud music playing in my head, noticing the dopamine running through my veins, tasting life; when you see me. You ask for a lighter and I grab my bag, feel the cold metal of the demanded tool and then your warm rough hand in mine, while im passing it over. I become the saviour of your night. You light your cigarette blowing off the lovely fading smoke, thinking about the mysterious pretty poet, who lent you her lighter. I'm your lighter-girl.  However, it then hit me like a thunderbolt: I'm more
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who are you when nobody's watching?

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https://open.spotify.com/track/4bJygwUKrRgq1stlNXcgMg?si=c72489a762e54f76 who am I when nobody's watching? unfortunatly I immediatly could fill two pages of my note book with possible answers to this particular question like: I'm a peaceful gangster who uses her voice as a delicate tool, I'm an energetic, loud fangirl kissing the book cover of crime and punishment, I'm a half-Revolutionist living in the shadows, only appearing when nobody's watching. I'm an amateur poet, a thrilled story teller, a late night (terrible) singer, an unknown fashion icon, a dirty dancer and a drowning ship full of unwanted melancholy and self-pitty.  I'm a bouquet with delightful flowers and every one of them represents one of my souls, one of my personality traits. Like everybody else I'm a person colored in diffrent nouances, covered with multiple layers. secretly.  Why do I hide behind an avarage, narrow, finite version of myself?  Probably because of fear of rejection, o
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