I know what this is, 2 am, with her sitting in her old chair in
front of a 2 year old laptop covered in kitten
stickers and glitter unicorns. Nonchalant, a bottle of coke next to
her, still cold. Earlier that evening she baked ordinary buns with
sugar, she’s satisfied now. Sometimes the radio’s on, but not right
now, as right now she’s wearing the earphones connected to her
computer. She might be concentrating.
When I ask her about how she lives, she
makes subtle and heavy anecdotes about how important it is to feel oneself breathe and the veins bobbing slightly
under skin, as hers is too thin. I know she sleeps
fidgety at night, having problems breathing. She will wake during
morning, only moving her eyelids a little, her body a stiff inhibiting
castle, still with a secretive tomb. She
has stopped fearing this. It might be because of the new meds.
say she makes funny jokes about her situation, any other aspect of it,
just not her heart. She’ll never laugh and tell you that she’s a broken
feather, a burnt child or an abandoned soul. Her
eyes are too sharp, like her fondness of knives and swords. Once back
in the day, she thought she was a weapon, shaped by cold hands, once so
tender holding her little body. Now she knows
better. Everything about her can be terrible, but also sweet. People
think she’s cute, and so she hides her truest nature in a heavy box
with seven locks and chains and has it sunk into the ocean of her
memories. She lets the wild tides guard her secrets, feels like
having gained control. Nightmares reside, fears of boogie men under her
bed, behind her closet and in all other corners simply vanish.
She is in control. Now she knows.
she can laugh about bleeding at the hands of doctors and nurses, she
can laugh about having problems standing on her own two feet without
falling over, and she can laugh about the ignorance of any whom she’d
never allow access into a body all hollow sores and oozing wounds
For years, she has tended to her face the best she can
to repair the scarring that will no less spring forth. A friend for
whom she felt well told her harshly that she couldn’t go and be
beautiful with all those obvious signs shaming her, no matter how
wonderful her eyes were. Later, he would want back into her heart, he
asked soft spoken. She reminded
him of his words. He had forgotten and her face had healed.
knows what people say about her behind her back. She could always hear the truth spoken beneath
breath and whispered lusciously. They just all made the mistake of
thinking she would not break the mute silence, the vow of keeping rigid
in the face of fault. She knows this, and she doesn’t care. She has
broken any norm seen fit to keep her in place. Having been warned to stop, to hold in, and to never disobey,
she now sees her opportunity to betray all their fickle little lies.
when she loses control somewhat, she savours the dark taste of the truth, of all their
misgivings. But mostly she takes realization deep into her, burns it
all to ashes being spread over her wide open ocean.
She is hoping for peace of mind.
still 2 am. She is having her last glass of coke, hugging the bottle with her hand. A half eaten bun rests near
bills, notes, a pen awaiting usage and all her pretty trinkets lined up
in front of her staring. She takes off her earphones, rests finally. Prepares for sleep to take her.
In the back of her mind, a well known and loved voice chimes. It’s his. Dad.
Don’t let them take you down.