My silence speaks to me in verbs;
days of not getting out of my closet-like room deprived of the sun, the half eaten apple browning by the nightstand, the matted hair unwashed since days, the stutter of words sinking down my throat... It speaks to me like an old sorrow of being on my own for a bit too long as I sit, companion bereft, with my silence ricocheting between my ears like an echo of the traumas that surface as scars on my battle-field skin.
My name, the Risen, has lost me as its identity because I keep falling into the perpetual darkness of words never spoken that I hide beneath band-aids now. Nobody calls me by my true name anymore, and I don't remember what it was but, i still exist as a reminder of it like a sticky-note left on a broken down fridge put away in the store-room.
I think, re-think, and overthink my fails, driven by the array of all the times i failed to assemble myself back into my body and as i lie fragmented, with broken shards of me left on the park benches forgotten in time, i ask myself what I should do with my homeless heart now.
Should i write? What is there to write about? And suppose I do who will read freedom into these words i trap in ink? I ask myself the questions that drift back to the blank shore of the memory of my love and its deserted shipwreck lost in the tenses; the past - a kaleidoscope, the future - a broken mirror.
At times, i wonder, If i write about the snow-flake reveries that vanished between the lines of my palms, would you read? If I spill my guts on the floor and ask you to assemble me like a ball of snow between your hands and make a snowman memorial of my hollow dreams, would you give me the warmth of your love again?
Would you read if i write...
days of not getting out of my closet-like room deprived of the sun, the half eaten apple browning by the nightstand, the matted hair unwashed since days, the stutter of words sinking down my throat... It speaks to me like an old sorrow of being on my own for a bit too long as I sit, companion bereft, with my silence ricocheting between my ears like an echo of the traumas that surface as scars on my battle-field skin.
My name, the Risen, has lost me as its identity because I keep falling into the perpetual darkness of words never spoken that I hide beneath band-aids now. Nobody calls me by my true name anymore, and I don't remember what it was but, i still exist as a reminder of it like a sticky-note left on a broken down fridge put away in the store-room.
I think, re-think, and overthink my fails, driven by the array of all the times i failed to assemble myself back into my body and as i lie fragmented, with broken shards of me left on the park benches forgotten in time, i ask myself what I should do with my homeless heart now.
Should i write? What is there to write about? And suppose I do who will read freedom into these words i trap in ink? I ask myself the questions that drift back to the blank shore of the memory of my love and its deserted shipwreck lost in the tenses; the past - a kaleidoscope, the future - a broken mirror.
At times, i wonder, If i write about the snow-flake reveries that vanished between the lines of my palms, would you read? If I spill my guts on the floor and ask you to assemble me like a ball of snow between your hands and make a snowman memorial of my hollow dreams, would you give me the warmth of your love again?
Would you read if i write...
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