Take me home, away from this tiny neat little box

i dont like explanations.
or, better put, justifications.
tho its a shame that these are the scenarios where words are most-frequently put into use.
oh-majesty words which are supposed to perform way more sacred duties
aka narrate. aka communicate. aka translate some foreign thoughts some floating theory some intangible daydreams
into something legible something more down-to-earth, or maybe, something more explicable in earth language.

Nicholas Sparks points out the one flaw in the perfect-high-school-cheerleader
"she puts shoes things people into neat tiny boxes"
in this case, i'd like to recommend my father as somewhat a pioneer for this kind of stereotypical school of thought.
from day one, i am shoved subconsciously into this teeny (given my size at birth) box labelled "A KID"
and surprisingly enough, I never managed to leave that box. I am eighteen going on nineteen in 3 months.
as I grew up, instead of replacing that teeny box I'm outgrowing, he decided to place more labels on it
little white stickers that read "arrogant" "ignorant" "noisy" "rebellious" "knows-it-all"
you know how it goes from there.
poor me, being inside this little cramped space, had no slightest idea of the scornful words that represents me. forget democracy. i never believe in such bullshit.
until one fine sunny day, i decided to wake up stand up look up from this happy little enclosure of mine, and take a little stroll out of this little box
who'd have known i'd be discovering the greatest secret (at least, to me it was and have always been one) of my life.
me living 15 years without knowing of all the eenie meenie white labels.
i tried. i pulled, tugged, even tried scratching off the words, every moment sitting wishing waiting for my heart to tell my eyes its all but an illusion.
but my heart sank a little further each time, some unseen labels came to sight.
then i ran.


i could have crawled back into the tiny warm box u know,
pretending that the incidental stroll's a wrong chapter in life
imagining that the box is the same inside out
and that he looks at me in the same way i do
that there's only one label that reads
"my loving daughter"



i ran non-stop for a year
scratched, bruised, torn myself into pieces
got myself tangled in some russell peters some Ali G some iran/iraqi conflicts some die hard 4.0 some haribos some cage fighting and hardcore french porno
occasionally landed in some german obsession some high-school sweethearts some not-meant-to-bes
sometimes i look back
and could still faintly make out the obscure words on the little what labels
sometimes i hope i didn't care
i long for the forgotten embraces the soft warm kisses and snowy white sheets
yet i always ask myself the same question
can you look into his eyes again the same way
i kept on running.


i ran out of money. i got myself a stomach ulcer. my german bf left me crying my heart out on the streets. some fucking bastard never return my calls. IB is a deep dark ominous abyss.
I trudged back to the little box
gave a sigh, crawled back in
from then on i never look him in the eye.

sometimes i hope words are deceiving
or maybe he didn't mean it like i thot he would
i'd still do my random strolls down the lane
secretly peeling down some of those persistent labels off the sides
(tho against my pride)
today i did something of that sort
only to realise
why the fuss
its not the labels that matters
the labels are already in his eyes.