You love yourself for being a veggie and for not
murdering those little lives for your meal. You paint your face with glitter to
let your friends notice how you’re a magic. You believe you are a magic because
for all these years, in every thirty days you bleed and survive. Now surviving
is important. Even for once if you stop to bleed. Even if it means a new life
within you. Even if it takes to suck that life from within.
Sometimes it’s hard to be in skin like, ours.
Sometimes our life feels a lot like an apartment that has caught up a wild
fire. And when it does, you should leave. Take only what you can carry. No
heavy heart, no tears, no first calls, no second thoughts. I wonder how much
are you carrying right now. I wonder what weighs you down is not only yours to
carry. It frightens me.
There are so many lights in this city. Sometimes they
guide you home. Sometimes, they take you really far from it. By the car window,
you count them like the touches of your lover that night. You feel just fine
until you don’t. Until the trigger pulls itself. Until the bullet leaves a
wound to grow with each hour, each minute, each second or whatever. It was fun,
stupid girl, he said, with a blade to your nape. And you loved him a little
more. Except there never was any blade, there was just his unblinking eyes and
your uncountable breaths in exclamations. It was just a heartless him on top
and a careless heart beneath your skin.
Under anaesthesia, you recall the mattress creaking
and the bed shrieking before your head starts to spin and your lips shake. You
wake up only to say that the pain is unbearable. But hey that’s exactly what
you already are bearing now. By chance, you are bearing it all alone. The
doctor asks you “how’s it going”? to which you reply “good” but honestly you
have this overwhelming desire to eat pieces of broken glass. And you can’t have
that. Because the doctor has kept you on warm liquid diet.
I see you laughing a little too loud, maybe so that no
one sees you marinating in stings of stomach ache and grams of grief. I see you
clapping, because maybe you needed an excuse to hold them. Now you don’t
believe you’re a magic. You’re a little girl, wearing oversized pajamas. A tiny
life in you is dead and I just sit there with my eyes closed and say, it’s
okay. Not everyone’s survival is important.
