The cracked open lips that bleed tell you no tales of the coldness that dried them up. The dirt in my nails decorate fingers with the untidiness of life.
Why do you bother yourself with how tasteless I am with the clothes I wear? Don’t they speak for themselves? The shoes don’t match, man, the socks are loose, they don’t add up and that’s how I choose.
The stories my mouth spits out are repetitive and banal. I come from a land where my tears are seen as weakness, expression, a crime and action, a sin. Don’t ask me to man up, brother, try becoming human. I am a man. A man who can’t cry will watch himself die.
Put the differences aside, try shaking hands one more time?