you speak in cursive letters

your words curl around my throat

they tell me i’ll be fine but

i don’t know.

i stare at the glare of those

bright, brand new kitchen lights, like

i’m fine, but i’m so tempted to say, “i

wanna die sometimes okay?”

why must i hide

all the things i hold inside

while my pride

takes a dive as i try to pry

those messed up memories from my mind?

my tongue twists, resists and i

scream, “help me!” but

no one else is near enough

to hear my desperate plea my

cries of anguish

on my knees my

ragged breathing

tears streaming

i’ll see you tomorrow

but i’m never speaking

again.

you spoke in cursive letters

your words curled around my throat

they tell me i’ll be fine but

i don’t know.

sometimes i

want to break my own neck or

tear my soul into a million pieces

so i close my eyes and try to find

safety from

my own mind.

but when i can’t drown out the demons i

tiptoe slowly down the hall

hands holding onto the only hope i have

hoping that maybe you can talk

and there i stand

needing to knock

not knowing how you will respond

i know that it’s almost one o’clock.

but my chest is burning

i am yearning

for some empathy

please?

i can’t handle

the voices inside me

all of these people

but no one to guide me.

they tell me i’ll be fine but

i don’t know.

i don’t know.

tell me tell me tell me

i will

be

okay

because my brain is screaming

saying

break your skin

into a million

pieces

you can’t remember the last time you were whole/it’s like you break yourself into sizable bits/digestible/you tell yourself/breathe in, out/rinse, swallow & repeat/ dinner sits heavy in your stomach. it was stale chicken, sterilised under flickering tubelights of family dinners you wished were less lively. they are more often than you would like, followed by shrivelled cards, in the back back back of your wardrobe. the games wardrobe, it was called, as if they weren’t stewing there, neglected and misused. do you remember that feeling?- of being elated, transfixed by the simple beauty of a board game that hadn’t been played yet? they are birthday presents from companions who you have forgotten to call, still frames in your mind .

pink-tinged perfume wafts through the humid air and tickles your nose. your retainer collects dust on a shelf you forgot to clear out before your 15th birthday, the one you couldn’t celebrate. you ask yourself- is this what i wanted? to be an extrovert among introverts, an introvert among extroverts? the outside of conversations, articulating emotion but never quite getting those, those thoughts of yours across this faulty abyss of solitude. they call you witty, she’s a funny girl, isn’t she? but what they don’t know is you staining your felt soft toy’s tiny limbs with the brine of your saltwater tears. they don’t know about the sleepless nights you’ve spent-migraines that shake your head till it hurts/the blinding lights from your bathroom window/it penetrates into your young skull/you knock your sweet head against the silver medals/the ones, you know you didn’t deserve. participation trophy/consolation, the only respite that your plain walls may be adorned, at last. for why should mediocrity be rewarded? 

you are not ordinary/no, no, not extraordinary/ but extra ordinary. keep your head above these tumultous, rage-filled waters, and maybe, just maybe, some semblance of adulthood shall make it out alive. inhale, exhale, reach above the surface as the afternoon skies embrace your flailing arms.