You are fifteen and on the kitchen floor with your head between your knees listening to the sound of your heart hitting the floor and your mother is calling you crazy but you don’t know how to tell her that, no, mama, it’s not madness, it’s depression. It’s waking up in the middle of the day because you couldn’t sleep the night before because your thoughts keep you awake for hours on end. It’s screaming on the sidewalk without making a sound. It’s hiding behind the trashcans in the alleyway because you are having a breakdown. Mama, I’ve been saying that I have no idea. That I’ve got no plans. And I’ve been telling myself that I’m living in the present but it’s not true it’s not true it’s not true. I’ve been lying to myself. I’ve been lying to you. Let’s call it the depression and leave it at that. Except it’s the depression and my suicidal tendencies. Except it’s my-suicidal-self and myself. Don’t leave me alone, don’t let me go. I’m not ready to die but oh, how I wish I was dead. Let’s call it a miracle. Let’s say that I have a future ahead of me. Let’s keep deluding ourselves.
Let’s say that I’ll live another day to see you smile Let me have that. Let me have that. //Please let me have that//
My walls were beige coloured and uneven. I spent months in a daze staring at the fungi eating at the north side of the room. I thought it was fascinating, how the cold ate all the colour away so slowly before I even noticed. I opened my eyes and suddenly a gigantic black hole and smaller wet spots surrounding it. I was fascinated. Terrified. My mother used to scream, her voice chilling, echoed off the walls. I used to pretend I couldn’t hear them. I kept the lights turned on all night long, deluded myself into thinking it never got dark. And when people asked me about the dark under my eyes, I deluded them into thinking I had insomnia. I packed away my fear, out of sight, boxed and packaged in a little room in my own imagination, which never knew darkness. I pretend that I never want to go back there ever again. That I would never be that little girl cowering in a sunlit room with a blanket around her shoulders. But truth is, sometimes, I dream of it the cold eating away at me, and the darkness growing inside of me. I would hide away in that little sunlit room
//forever// if I could.
May is here. April was my first love. She rose with the sun and set with the sun. I saw the moon in everything she did. April hides her face behind her hands when she laughs and raises her head up high when she’s sad but never ever ever cries. It’s called black tea, warm tea, good tea. It’s called short dresses and long nights. A good life is a short life.
//Love begins in January and ends when April dies//
It’s May, May, May. May god bless her good heart. April dances on clouds on Saturday’s with her January friend and sinks deep on Tuesdays. May loves me but April’s got my mind occupied. May thinks the future and I don’t deserve. But April’s dead and I am lonely. May is lovely, I think I could love her. But April was only a few days ago and that’s not long at all. How do I forget April? I’ve been made a fool of.
My goodness, April’s fool.
May says communicate communicate communicate and I love May. But I also love April but it’s May who loves me. Am I still a fool if I choose May?
Tell me, how do I forget, December?
This is how it begins. A moon, a sun, and both of them under the same sky.
This is how it ends. A sun, a moon, and both of them collapsing under the same sky. And still, it’s a wonder, how people still ask, how they died, when they didn’t. They just ended.
What a shame.
They just ended. So, it’s a red sky and a white moon. The story is still the same though. Collapsing under the moon. Falling into each other and drawing back. A sea and a shore. It’s all the same. Metaphors and similes never make much sense anyways.
What is the man who blinked? Is he alive? Why did he blink? It’s all the same. He is drawing back, she is pulling in. The cycles of the moon. Ants running down hills. Can you imagine?
The hustle and bustle of two bodies merging together? My god, they are beautiful and sacred. Holy in their suicidal tendencies.
It’s death and the earth. Death and blood. Death and the moon. Death and his scythe. Look what a picture we make. The blood is on the floor. The blood on the floor.
//The blood is not ours// //Oh, but how we wish it was//
I feel myself twisting and molding, taking shape, being reborn as something crueler and harsher. I touch my face and I no longer feel the soft of my cheeks. Everything is sharp and I am cutting myself on me. It's an endless charade. This goodness in me. It's biased. Wrecked. Not good. Fake. Hate colors my heart and want. Want devours me whole. The kindness that was once boundless in me has no mercy for anyone else anymore. It's one for oneself in this world and I've adjusted. Don't tell me to be soft. Don't tell me to be kind. I am tired and I am angry and I have no space in me for pity. I've cut myself on me and I am changed. Don't ask me to be the same. I've never been good at going back to sleep once I've woken.
She takes me to places where the world is loudest and she tells me that the whole world lusts after her and I believe her despite her sarcasm and scorn.
It's like this. Mama bore a girl but she birthed an obloquy. It's like this. She makes me quiet.
Can we just stay here and listen to the traffic, please?
I know. I empathize. I want you. I won't ever deny that. So don't you ever deny who I am.