A poem… or song? … Something, it was something that Eve wrote on a rainy day, while she was trapped in her “bird cage.” At heart, Eve’s a lover, past her introvertedness, past her hard shell, past a pair of eyes that are impossible to read. She feels, she feels so much it can sometimes feel like she’ll implode if she were to keep her feelings in that mysterious little head of hers. So she doesn’t, instead opting to write, and write, and write about her feelings, sometimes it’s blunt, sometimes it’s poetic, sometimes it’s not even readable. Eve trusts her notebook more than anyone else, her friends, her family, even herself. It’s not like she doesn’t trust anyone, she just feels… safer, knowing that only her notebook has heard the thoughts that come and go from her mind. She knows that her precious little compile of ink filled pages will never ever tell another soul her secrets. It’s also a friend she knows will never laugh or judge her, it’ll never ask questions, and it’ll never ask her to stop talking. She freely tells all her insecurities, worries, and most importantly, her secrets, to her small, paper friend. And when she’s done, it “returns him home” in his special little dark corner under her bed. A place she knows no one will ever check in a million years… hopefully, anyway. She isn’t too proud of the picture she took. It was a nice moment, one of utter peace, but unfortunately, her phone’s camera quality is kinda… low. Regardless, Eve wanted to take it, as a way to come back when she needs to. What exactly does that mean? Not sure, but it’s not like that matters, at least not to Eve anyway. The poem itself is about a secret person that she admires, quite a lot actually. Feel free to take your guesses, it’s not like you can go expose her or anything. Regardless, she’s one of the only people in her friend group that’s actually good at hiding their feelings, so it’s not like any of her other friends will figure any time soon. Honestly, she doesn’t understand a lot of the things she does, or why she does them… at least, that’s what she’d like to believe.
If it were up to me I'd turn you into a stone, Or maybe I'd turn the lights down low for effect. And I'd steal your c!g@rrete. I'm softer than I look through c!g@rrete smoke. If somebody asks me I'll say, "I did it as a joke." "But how about his loudness?" He gets it from his mom. Along with a refusal to get a haircut, And a smile handed to him by God. Or when he touches you, you'll wonder, "How does he keep his hands so soft?" He doesn't have any new clothes either, or even a stable job. But anyways, it isn’t even what I meant to say. I just wanted to write about you, As I watched you fall asleep. And I wouldn’t have to talk to you if you wouldn’t talk to me. But you could let me lay on top of you, And so can all your heat. Don’t let them hear you crying boy, If it didn’t really hurt. I’d give you a drink to jog your memory, But it wouldn’t really work. He meant to sing a song, But he couldn’t memorize the words. He’d only remembered the chorus He’d mumbled through the verse. You pretty boy… don’t speak You pretty boys… Are only good for one thing.
