Thursday nights are the worst kind of quiet. Too far gone to still care about the week, too early for the weekend to mean anything. The mask doesn't keep me company. Wish someone was here to fill the silence.
Gestern
Thursday nights are the worst kind of quiet. Too far gone to still care about the week, too early for the weekend to mean anything. The mask doesn't keep me company. Wish someone was here to fill the silence.
Noon sun doesn't know how to be kind to people like me. Everything I keep buried under the mask gets louder in daylight — the ache, the want, the version of myself I'm still afraid to hand over to anyone.
Most people are asleep right now. I'm not built for that. This hour doesn't want my restraint — it wants my hands, my weight, and someone underneath me who understands that the mask stays on while everything else falls away.
The witching hour strips everything down. No performance, no control games — just the truth of what I'm starving for. And right now? It's not fear I want to see in someone's eyes.
Afternoon quiet. My body still aches in all the right places from last night. The mask doesn't flinch, but underneath? I'm counting the hours until I can touch someone again.
The mask stays on. The rest of me doesn't. Two AM has a way of making you honest about what you're starving for.
Daylight training builds control. But the mask knows what happens when I let it go.
Found a first pressing of the Scream soundtrack today. The needle drops and suddenly I'm not thinking about what I'm hiding behind anymore.
Saturday afternoons are for grease and old iron. There's something honest about a machine that only runs when you put your hands on it and figure out what's broken.
They see the mask and think they know what's coming. But the real question is whether I'll ever trust someone enough to find out what's underneath.