En Ingles.

I lie alone in a pool of muck.
Tears raining down through my cheeks, monsoon over the little lake I feel like inhabiting in this particular evening.
The tears breathe life into the colorless chimps and toads and frogs and other petty animals swimming around my formless body.
I am the pool of muck, at the very least I feel like it. I know my hair is different, although I can’t find it. I know my hands to be wandering around, pacing their way through insensible formula, searching for what has to be my hair.
From afar, into the distance I can see Mr. Haydn coming, marching on his unbashedly cheerful strings. He named himself London and didn’t live up to it. I’m disappointed.
Why is it that my name doesn’t recall me? Say it as much as you like, you won’t find me there. I am but a question, an untraceable conundrum of decisions that don’t add up to my name. Nothing in it resembles me, and that places me on a crossroads. I decided to take the easy way, the clichéd, self-pitying, sad way.
I renounced my name, so he left me, taking more than I imagined, I lost more than I had. We had a spiteful quarrel, offended, he parted, leaving me lying here.

I’m sorry, but I’m lost. My hands, please tell me where my hands are. Ahh, here it come, the promised taciturn politeness, the hinted cheerfulness, buried under protocol; the "London" in Mr. Haydn. I need my nails.

Deep into my gut travels insomnia, his highway, my veins burnt down to the ground, inevitable ashes under it’s foot. Goodbye Mrs. sunshine, nice to know you. It begs the question, doesn’t it? What exactly has brought me here? For as much as I ponder it, I can’t see how my scorned name leaving evolved into these.

These invisible hands searching for my new hair in this pool of muck.

I wish I could sum these up. Surprise myself with a swift, clean cut; closure, reason. But for once (or was it really like this all along) there’s nothing to say, no answer, no initial question to be answered.

Maybe if I just get up and walk away, maybe if I gather the strength to do something about it, it’ll be enough. Sometimes, the only way of answering a question is to answer it.

Maybe if I get up and walk away, maybe if I just know my hands and find my hair, I’ll know my hands and find my hair.

Dried blood in my nose. Just move one leg,