I am a montage of sighs plastered onto a white-washed wall of a house no one visits anymore. A house that was never a house to begin with, but a morgue where they hid my depression among the dead bodies of my laughter and love. This is what I have always felt like, living in the no-man's land, with an alias, torn between the illusion of what I am and what I never was.
My mother thinks that I died six years ago when i first began to notice the wound marked on my heart and drew on my arm with a blade. My mother thought that I bled to death. That day, like every bird in a cage, my heart beat it's restless wings against the ribs and I tried to end it's misery. She thinks I've been dead ever since.
She doesn't recognize me now and calls me by a different name, a name that speaks of the pain in her cavern heart where my failed suicide attempts hang like stalactites that collapse on the ground of the pain in her womb.
I can't say; I probably died my death back then because I'm no longer who I was. I don't even remember. I'm the vestige, the dead skin of the person who lived within me, now having moulted its way out, doesn't remember its way to the memory it trapped in me - lost in the abyss of absence where even i can't find it anymore...
My mother complains that I make a museum out of my depression and put it on a display in fragile glass boxes. I do disappoint her, and she's probably ashamed of me. But how do I become the person she wants me to, and who does she want me to be? Mother, why do you care that in this lost crowd people might actually see me for who I am? Why does it bother you that they'll notice the blood oozing out of the words I write? Yes, I fight the urge to kill myself every moment, even as i speak, why does that not bother you, that such thoughts should ever have come into being? But, it doesn't matter because I don't.
I've learnt to talk like a stillborn child sinking into your graveyard arms, dead against my will... and even now, as this ink gets absorbed into my paper voice, i know that you'll never know what i feel
My mother thinks that I died six years ago when i first began to notice the wound marked on my heart and drew on my arm with a blade. My mother thought that I bled to death. That day, like every bird in a cage, my heart beat it's restless wings against the ribs and I tried to end it's misery. She thinks I've been dead ever since.
She doesn't recognize me now and calls me by a different name, a name that speaks of the pain in her cavern heart where my failed suicide attempts hang like stalactites that collapse on the ground of the pain in her womb.
I can't say; I probably died my death back then because I'm no longer who I was. I don't even remember. I'm the vestige, the dead skin of the person who lived within me, now having moulted its way out, doesn't remember its way to the memory it trapped in me - lost in the abyss of absence where even i can't find it anymore...
My mother complains that I make a museum out of my depression and put it on a display in fragile glass boxes. I do disappoint her, and she's probably ashamed of me. But how do I become the person she wants me to, and who does she want me to be? Mother, why do you care that in this lost crowd people might actually see me for who I am? Why does it bother you that they'll notice the blood oozing out of the words I write? Yes, I fight the urge to kill myself every moment, even as i speak, why does that not bother you, that such thoughts should ever have come into being? But, it doesn't matter because I don't.
I've learnt to talk like a stillborn child sinking into your graveyard arms, dead against my will... and even now, as this ink gets absorbed into my paper voice, i know that you'll never know what i feel
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