I'm sorry but i don't like to go home at all. Huge slanted eyes follow me there. Flared nostrils never miss the odor of alcohol and smoke on my breath. I'm paranoid. I slam walls with my face guilty. Eyes and nostrils make me guilty, we all have eyes and nostrils there for that purpose. I've seen that gleam before, you think i'm too young for all this shit but i've been old. And you were so quiet i was always afraid to tell you about my nightmares with needles (those evil syringes) about that foul smell in my hair that sticks and about my obsession with dying too. you were in another world. I can't remember what language it was you spoke. Slips my mind all the time and you thought I was crazy but now I'm trying so fucking hard to remember. I won't tell you about the days I spent trying to join you. I won't mention the weeks of sitting in a corner of my room with a knife and cigarettes trying to decide which is the better way to die. I won't say that I know you, even though i do. You could admire yourself only through shattered mirrors or doting lovers' eyes. I've thrown away all the mirrors I had and I've left all traces of hands on my body behind. I miss neither, shit, I miss both. You the most. You shouldn't have left me here alone.