I like containment. I like arrangement. To be laid out, not entirely bare. Only the milky cover is visible. I am what you want me to be. I am who I want you to see. This holds the greatest power. Trying to convince you that I am like you, so uniform. I perform. I act out your every day, convincing both you and myself that this is truly who I am. I truly love to be contained. I love that everything that has ever been done can be explained.

I like that there is always motivation, never spontaneity just anticipation. I anticipate to be frozen over like the water in the freezer. Stuck in my ways but disguised as you, so see through like the water before the cold.

The cold makes me old. I remain here, not clear like you. Instead I am overcast with the milky pearl that I hope disillusions you. I hope it confuses you. I hope it makes you perceive me as light, plain, rather than insane like the white walls of my room. The room that I live in is all white. When everything is contained, it is all white. Why is it white? White is idealistic so simplistic in the purity it seems to illuminate us with. Why can’t I be like you and see this white containment as bliss?

No, white allows you to see me truly. In the white I am unruly. Bound and contained by the white straight jacket that I have stained. Marked by blood. I am marked by my misperception of your love.

I love to be you. I love to be contained. I love to be so easily summed up and explained. I love to be restrained.

White is aging, it is changing, yet in the end we are all white again. Growing gray and preparing for the pending decay, I feel I have pretended. I have pretended to embrace the white. Seeing the cold ice as paradise. Seeing the white room, the white walls as a place I was so lucky to be among you and to live in. Rather it is a prison. Watching you, knowing you are only next door. Living in your white picket fences knowing unlike me you are not totally against this. Confirming is performing and as much as I would like to be contained, I cannot be explained. My milky haze envelops my being as I grow to embody this residue. White is not my color. Life is not my mother. I wish to be another. I wish to escape.