Inner child

Oh my friend, my familiar friend

I've picked up this pen to write 

Too many thoughts of you 

Too many anger-filled words

Too many sorrows that broke down your essence

Tell me how you still sit and yearn

For everything , when you were never enough 

Never given enough , loved enough 

Speak to me of the peace you sleep with at night

When wrath still guards our tongue 

Better yet, tell me how you still love them

When forgiveness was carved out of our throat

I wrote and I write to tell

To tell you I am in awe of you

I am in despair for you

And yet I hope for you. I hope you're okay

Pretend we are okay

Please. I do not know the damage I have wrought 

Upon our crumbling bones 

But please be okay.

We have a long way to go

Another's tale - To not know a mother

 I was four when I looked up at my mother sleeping on the living room floor

her head curled around the dining room table

discarded pillows and a throwaway laid untouched by the couch

as if she had told herself she did not deserve to poison the delicate threads 

I was six when I met my first 'uncle'.

His hands were bigger than my legs, as they gently bounced me up and down on their knee

I watched as one uncle grew to many

As mother watched with vacant eyes

I was eight when I told my brother to run away

The uncles were too rough on his soft nature

red marks and imprints had embedded themselves upon his skin

as mother said nothing from the side of the cracked furniture

I was ten when I raised my voice in a burning fire

of insults and accusations and words that rang with truth and lies

I was a child made of flint , striking against fuel

I was ten when I told my mother I did not want to see her

I was 11 when father came on my doorstep

he brought a new brother along to convince me of a better life

mother screamed and hurled profanities I had never thought of

I was 11 when I learnt my parents didn't always fight

I was thirteen when I found myself in a new home

Another mother who did not know how to care for another's child

She tried, bless her heart she did it in her own way

But I was thirteen when I realised

A mother does not drown herself amongst smoke clouds of white

she does not raise her hand after every bottle

a mother does not smell like the aftermath of Katrina

A mother should never push me away from home

I was 15 when I realised I lacked the nurturing love most recieved

so I gave and Gave to everyone around me

pieces of myself, everything I could offer

To recieve a semblance of what love could be

I was 16 when I finally realised. That love can not be chased this way

mother taught me enough from young

that no matter the blood ties between family

love lasts long but never is it meant to stay

I was never young enough to grow up without a mother. But I know not if I miss it , or the idea of what a mother should be. I know not.

DNR - First tattoos

Mikhaila did not realise how beautiful the world was until she saw Riyon's very first tattoo on his skin. a stark reminder that beautiful things were no longer made to last, to be immortal.

It was a sunny afternoon, school had ended, and Riyon sat hunched on the bleachers twiddling with his fidget ring, while Mikhaila began taking all of the trash out of her bag, attempting to arrange it in, but to no avail.Her ADHD had been out of control recently, as had the number of empty gum wrappers.Scraps of papers with quotes and doodles, pens with no caps, and ink-blotted tissues seemed to have embedded themselves to become part of her beloved bag itself. Riyon watched this all, and the only sign of any emotion on his young yet so old face was the slight curve of his lips. He was amused, and rightly so, for he was the complete opposite of her. His own bag sat between his legs, and even Mikhaila knew it contained nothing but a sleek laptop and a diary, along with two caligraphy pens he had inherited from his grandfather. He finally huffed as he sat down besides Mikhaila on the ground, taking the trash she was discarding to the side so it didn't blow away with the rogue-ish winds their city was experiencing out of nowhere.

"Why do you throw your trash in your bag?" he asked curiously, as he slowly unfurled one such crumpled paper to only see vague math equations that he solved almost immediately in his mind. Mikhaila paused, frustrated, as she tried to fish out a half-broken pen, ink staining her pale fingers a dark purple. "Honestly, I swear on my life I do not know how they end up in the bag in the first place." "I swear I write everything in a notebook, but the notebook disappears, and yet I find pieces of paper in here." Riyon acknowledged her words with a hum before he opened up another piece of paper with colours sticking out of it. He paused, eyeing the details of the crumpled yet still beautiful artwork in front of him—a proud stag with long antlers and gentle eyes peering into the bag. "This is beautiful," he remarked, trying to smooth out the paper to hand it back to her. Mikhaila barely glanced at it, shrugging bashfully. "I was trying to design a tattoo, but it doesn't fit my aesthetic; I don't think I am as proud as a stag." Riyon hummed again, still taking in the details of the tattoo, before looking back at her. "Have you decided what you want as your very first tattoo then?" Mikhaila paused this time before looking down at her hands and rubbing her left wrists, where signs of her past still lingered amongst the white lines on her tanned skin. "I have not. But I do believe I'll be pulled towards something sometime soon. There have been the words "get better day by day" that hit in a way no other quotes have. "But I am still musing as of now." Riyon absentmindedly nodded as he carefully folded the stag drawing and pocketed it in his joggers, mindful of the way Mikhaila suddenly blushed and grinned at that. He also realised she was waiting for a reply, so he awkwardly looked back at her, wondering if he should've asked her permission. "Sorry. I think I'll keep the photo for future reference if I ever go back for tattoos again. I'll even credit your name under it if you want. He winked and tried not to smile as Mikhaila's eyes widened. "Wait,... once more?"Do you have a tattoo already? Wait, do you have many? When? Where?" 

 

Riyon froze and fought not to pull up his hand to rub the left side of his chest, which he found himself doing out of habit for the past 4 months out of anxiety. He grimaced as he considered how he could quickly get himself OUT of this conversation he had started, before returning his gaze to the only person who had remained his friend despite everything they had been through."Yeah," he finally whispered, as he looked away from her towards the park trees. The afternoon was lovely; the sun was gleaming through the trees, and even from here, he could hear the birds chirping in the distance. Yet it did nothing to warm the chill in his bones as he tried to smile at her once again. "Tell me, where would you want to go in this world before you die?"

Mikhaila blinked, taken aback by the abrupt question; her eyes became unfocused as she thought of an answer. Riyon once again found himself slowly rubbing his chest as Mikhaila looked at his hand and back at him, awareness dawning in her eyes at the possibility of where he might have his tattoo.

"Scotland perhaps. Reside in a castle in a remote land, surrounded by lush greenery and trees, and only the stories within the walls."I think that would be the most ideal way to leave this world."

Riyon hummed, nodding his head slowly as he imagined that, before he looked back up at the sky. "At least you have a place," he muttered before he looked back down at her. "I haven't really found a place worth visiting before dying yet." Mikhaila smiled before glancing back at his chest, then at his eyes, then away, biting her lips in a fashion that made him know she was trying her best not to ask an intrusive question. "Ask Mikhaila," he told her, amused at her withholding her own curiosity. She blushed before she looked at the place he had been rubbing absentmindedly. "Do you have a tattoo there?" she finally asked, trying not to look away from his eyes as he fixed his gaze at her. He could lie; he could tell her no, and she wouldn't ever see it again anyway, for it was in a place where one would have to lift their shirts.

"Aye, I do," he answered, looking away to the trees once again in the distance behind Mikhaila. Her eyes widened before she leant forward, one of her hands wrapping around his wrists in excitement, making him jump at the unexpected contact and physical touch."Can I see?" she asked, her eyes flitting between his eyes and his chest, almost as if she would stir his material off herself if he said no. Trying to ease the sudden anxiety racing through him, he looked at the young teenager in front of him, only a year younger than he was, yet so full of life and intrigue that he debated whether he should crack this shell of a human being and show her the other side of the coin.

He didn't want to. But something made him unwrap her hands from his wrist, and he unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt before pulling it aside to her eyes with practised fluid movements.her eyes only.

With saddened eyes and baited breath, he watched as her eyes traced the ECG permanently etched into his skin.He watched the way her brows furrowed in confusion and concentration as the 8 cm by 10 cm tattoo sketched itself out from the ecg to the little angel wings that were boldly underlined. She then stopped breathing as she read the three letters written on his skin, big bold letters in cursive written beautifully as his chest seemed to stop moving to highlight the heaviness behind the letters.He blinked before carefully buttoning his shirt up again, swallowing thickly as he breathed in slowly, watching the way the light left her eyes and how they averted to the ground in front of him, her hands stilling as she pieced together the tattoo in her mind.

"I see," she said quietly, looking up at him again, her face no longer bright with joy, but with a sad understanding, a knowingness that haunted him to see on a 16-year-old's face.a knowingness that she would have known where it came from, for she had been there when he had been brought back to life.

He nodded once more, swallowing as he broke eye contact and looked out to the woods behind her, the silence descending among the duo as unfinished words comforted them in the silence that blanketed their world.The sun was no longer shining as it had, the birds were settling down, and the trees did not look as inviting as before. He sighed.

 

There, inscribed under the ECG and angel wings, were three letter words that reminded him of a life that he could've had had he not been in the fated car crash those months ago—a reminder that he was here while others weren't.

There, under the bold line, were three letters that described his pain of living here, in the moment, a stark reminder he lived through everyday.

DNR.

 

Do Not Resuscitate

 

A product of expectations

 I cannot count the years I have spent begging to be someone else

Someone more capable, more thinner perhaps, more charming, a beauty to withhold

I do not know who I am anymore

I am my mother's failed dreams

sculpted by the broken skin of my fathers' tired hands

I am the product of my brothers' failures

and a child lost in despair

Mirrors no longer shine as they used to

as I glance upon the what ifs of my being

How ugly is this resentment I carry

To be made of everyone but myself

How do I forgive myself?

I do not know where to start.

Ghosts of all I could've been

 I spent my 20's chasing ghosts of all those I thought I should be

Could be

Should've been

Until I finally became someone

Yet now that I am someone

I feel like I am no one

I feel like I am not enough

Someone explain to me how I spent 10 years chasing after dreams to make something of myself only to still be left wondering and focusing on the what ifs and the what could've been if becoming someone isnt enough.

I never thought I would ever come to the realisation the only ghost I have been chasing is my own shadow- and yet as I sit here with my shadow in front of me, asking me what else could I ever want when I have achieved the stability I craved so desperately for, I am rendered speechless.

To all the versions of me, I am sorry I put you through hell to only be unhappy

to all the future versions of me, i am sorry for feeling like I am not enough

I do not know how to feel like I am someone. But I will try. I will pick myself up and I will continue searching for this unknown feeling of never being satisfied enough. Of never being enough

I am sorry to you , dear self. How selfish and cruel I have been to put you through all this only to never tell you how thankful I am for bringing me where I am now. I am sorry.

My parents are running out of time

 My parents are running out of time

like the flowers that wilt after water no longer strengthens their stems

the way their petals droop

and the leaves curl up on themselves

daffodils and peonies wilt and fall

whilst roses stay as their petals fall one by one

My parents are running out of time.

I never knew distance could be as great as it is now

Haze

 I do not know how to describe the feeling of failure

The slow haze of acceptance and anxiety

Like the quiet tears mother wiped by herself at night

Or the blurry gaze of contacts of the wrong prescription 

It is akin to watching sunlight through cracks of a broken window

Glaring sunrays reflecting but not quite hitting the expanse of my skin

It is the realisation of the symphony within my head

That the world was not made for me to be in it

There is no simple way to tell you I want to die

Words are not enough to describe the emptiness in the hollows of my being

Love is poured into it endlessly yet it has not reached the bottom

Affection has been stripped from my skin

I am a walking roaring green-eyed monster

Envious of people who can love and be loved 

I am simply a being hurt and afraid of being hurt

A suicidal girl beneath the tresses

No, I do not know hot to tell you

I am Icarus flying without wings

Freefalling to the sea

With no desire of stopping.