sometimes it feels like a picture-perfect moment, frozen within a wooden frame; the glass catching the glint of winter sunlight, reflecting your smiling face of contentment, peace.
other times, it feels like you are gripping too hard, until you’re just clutching onto cracked glass, the fractured bonds spread thin like spider webs, almost invisible to the naked eye. the web catches the morning dew on the corner of your pillowcase, glimmers ever so slightly.
your hands let slip the framed picture; the shards pierce through paper skin and the film bleeds nostalgia. you are transfixed, but you can’t fix this – you can only wait, for each piece to reassemble into their respective places. things like these – you can only wish for things to fall into place, like catching the first snowflake from the sky in your gloved hands, a delicate, warm moment.
i think it hurts the most when life knocks the words out of your chest; i am still struggling to recover (them). a tear trails down your cheek because no matter how hard you try, you cannot find the right combination of words to connect head to heart. your made-up tragedy is not worthy to be hung up in the walls of a museum, people could care less about mediocre metaphors and an obsession with overcompensation.
you are forced to come to terms with a raw, battered soul and face the fraud in the mirrors. you are struggling not to drown in, but swim through the difficult parts of you; it feels foolish to be gasping for air in a bathtub when others are thrown out into the sea with its rough waves and tough tides. the dripping sink is reminding you of every second you waste, builds up to a lifetime of regrets that you may not be able to flush away. it hurts. it is a void you want to purge – but how do you get rid of something that is not there? why do i keep opening and closing the same page, over and over again? why do i start then stop soon after? why do i try, then give up? am i a blinkering wifi connection?
nobody likes a weak connection.
they’d rather switch it off, and switch to something more stable, like 4G.
this hollowness is growing too heavy to carry.
when you do not feel safe in your own skin, you are bound to struggle living a lone within your four walls. your heart feels more trapped then sheltered in its own ribcage; every breath you take feels more like an obligation than a blessing to be alive. you cannot reconcile with the person staring back at you from the mirror; as your shaky fingers outline your silhouette in the mist, an inner voice tells you that what you see is what you get. maybe this is the closest to an out-of-body experience you can get, the disconnection from being, here, in these moments – as you hear the curtains sway and the ceiling fan whirring on, and on. the world spins on its axis despite your existential conundrum to write yourself – into or out – of being. your clock still works. your wifi functions today, your friends went out to play; but your soul – it is sputtering like an old engine, unsure of purpose, in need of drive and a mechanic to revive it.
i am still waiting – but im no longer sure what for.
logically this is not the best thing to do. i am like a hermit crab shelled up, despite outgrowing its home.
i want to leave.
but not alone.
maybe i am waiting for a doorbell, a knock, familiar faces, your voice, greeting me from afar, the warmth seeping through my skin.
you leave a sour aftertaste, like forgotten milk in the refrigerator that turns it back on me; the once friendly air between us curdles into tense bits and you’ve become so cold. i know – there is no use crying over spilt milk, but how do i mop up this mess, an icky situation that leaves me floored? they should really put a warning label on expired connections. you were the bread and butter of my mornings, giving me a nostalgic sort of childlike happiness, strengthening my brittle soul. now my stomach just gurgles with unease as i drink your remaining words and swallow back mine, unsure, maybe resigned.
i hope i don’t choke.
death has visited, leaves eery quiet in his wake as he twirls life away from me. she dances in passionate flames, inevitably attracted to her opposite, a fatal affair. now that she’s gone, there is an emptiness hanging still like stale air, a suffocating heaviness; how can something weigh so much on my heart when it is nothing? absence feels like a deadweight anchored to my body, a live grave of opportunities and light swallowed up by soft sheets, a possession so gentle you could hardly notice the difference.
my ribcage is shrinking into its own shadow while my heart hibernates and becomes numb to the cold; each and every bone feels like the towering bars of a prison maze, watch as i try to feel my way out of this mess. they tell me to follow the right hand rule, but my hands don’t feel right with bloodied hands that’ve continuously left glass shards swept under the carpet after failing to piece them back together. the only way i feel is through the reverberation of bass tunes along my veins, a steady rhythm to combat the dark silence that haunts me so.
maybe this is just a phase, i thought to myself, like a misguided ghost trying to figure out its reason for existence, wandering endlessly with forgotten buried grudges and regrets, a uncomfortable stirring within its soul. these souls move on sooner or later, rekindling peace and security within themselves; so shall i one day.
(nobody speaks of those that linger, in limbo, still struggling to reconstruct themselves. i hope you will speak of me. i hope you will speak to me.)
i am wounded inside out the moment you turned your back to bite the hand that feeds you. maybe this is what mother feels like everytime i turn out to be the synonym of disappointment, the antonym of gratitude, defining her worry lines, her downturned lips, her furrowed brows.
i’m sorry i haven’t changed my ways as a useless child.