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.
longing turns into waiting and waiting turns into suffocating, these hands of mine do not know how to reach out to others, afraid to entangle someone else in your mess; the weeds only breed further in a fertile land of negativity. open my heart to closed doors, allowing it to melt in this frustratingly searing weather; it throws itself against the windows, smearing glass panels and starts painting red flags, slowly surrendering to its fate.
it is open to dissection, if you pry so hard enough, in all the right ways.
what is going on in this one hell of a disaster? your synapses are scattered all over the place, thoughts shrouded in the shadows of dark clouds; everyday a rainy parade wrecks havoc and blow things out of proportion.
i want to make sense of it, too.
when did your mind palace crumble and fall apart – how long exactly has it been? do you remember?
i’ve lost count of the days i thought were numbered.
who did this to you? someone so ruthlessly cruel, chaotic.
(tell me, i will make sure that they are gone)
im afraid that someone whom you’re referring to is not who you think it is.
where has it occurred?
everywhere. along school corridors, under the shower head, beneath the covers, in a suffocating room filled with chatter and laughter – each time feels like leaning precariously over the edge.
how are you going to build this back up?
i don’t know; i guess we’ll wait for the storm to pass and venture to pick the remnants up, muttering a silent prayer for it to to never turn.
PROMPT: write a poem which asks all the questions to which you urgently need answers.
a/n: i realized i didn’t write the prompt properly but oh well
porcelain doll, your ugliness is manifesting on the surface, seeping through the cracks that spread across your skin like wrangling vines, in a battle for dominance. you wish for raining glass shards only to remind yourself of the fragility, the pain, your broken pieces. your smile is plastered across your face, designed to fend off concerns that threaten to expose your inner wounds; but you cannot hide the split ends, the fault lines that divide you into conflicting beings, one constantly drowning the other. you can’t breathe when you’ve been manipulated by your feelings.
so who will love you now