i'm a firecracker child / holding them inches from my face / let the sparks burn my nose and remind me that all good things come at a price / let the embers slip beneath my fingernails and kindle a fight that i didn't know was there / and god forbid i smell like gunpowder / i'm a burial child / mourning my fallen siblings who caught bullets to the heart and soul / i kiss the coffins before they sink into the ground / in memoriam is inked between my temples / i'm a swimming pool child / open your eyes and ignore the chlorine sting / we're drowning out here / can't someone toss us a rope? /

i'm a watermelon girl / i devour the pink flesh and spit seeds onto my napkin / spit out some, swallow others / isn't that how it works these days? / if i were a seed, would i be lurching down someone's digestive tract? / or would i rejoice with my privileged comrades? / i'm a hair chalk girl / i watch my sister struggle to get the red to show up in her dark locks / blue smears on my fingers but barely tints my pigtails / i'm a parade girl / i watch in envy as other hair chalk girls wave their flags and show off their bikes, the spokes twirling with patriotic rhythm / her corn-silk hair is streaked perfectly with blue and red / i finger my brown hair and sigh / why even bother? /

i'm a bandana baby / twisting paisley accents my flaws / i'm a flip flop baby / tan lines between my toes / catch at sidewalk cracks / i stumble over my self-doubt / i'm a lemon bar baby / a blueberry suffocating in custard / latch onto the graham cracker crust for dear life / i'm a concert baby / tie dye shirts and open air stages / hold me on a pedestal of judgement / creasing eyebrows tell me that i'll never be good enough / why can't a summer baby breathe? /

She could find herself, say, in Denmark near the ramparts of her fiancé’s great stone castle, the simple notion of a tragic heroine – let’s say a woman no longer quite so young who truly ought to have been married by now but her fiancé is still taken with his prepositions of youth and passion, in the boughs of a groaning willow tree on a cool autumn’s day when the wind is whistling through her hair and hiding everything from her vision in a sea of maize and ivory, hands dirt-stained in a way that suggests she is not used to the mundanity of peasantry but indulges in it as any high-born child feels obligated to (isn't she the same as the commoners? what sets them apart other than her rings and her obedient attendants and her satin bedsheets and the crown to be set upon her beloved's dark hair? doesn't she deserve this little bit of freedom?) and she thinks: isn't it odd that she can't hear the Church bells ringing from here, but why should she mind it - she's never been particularly faithful, no hardly devout, simply effortlessly good and pure (she knows it is true for they've always told her so, ever since childhood she's been good Ophelia, pure Ophelia, sweet Ophelia, young Ophelia - she is no longer as young as she was, dainty wrists and ankles starting to thicken and sag with the promise of age), let's say she's missing home - that there were always more trees at her estate - and that crouching in the crook of the willow's rough embrace of bark and woodchips perhaps she feels that she is younger, that she can be good Ophelia, pure Ophelia, sweet Ophelia, young Ophelia for a little bit longer, just as long as her feet don't touch stone and she drinks only from the river; she considers how life were to be if she became a nymph, apart from all this business of royalty and political hubub - she does not doubt that more than a few of her fiancé’s future advisors have daggers hidden well in the folds and layers of their lavish doublets - he has waited so long to wed her, he has no heir to avenge him if for any reason those bearded men drunk on decades worth of wine from his father's table decide that he is not fit to be king, and she cannot imagine being spared as Gertrude was: she is not cunning as she was, she has only the mere clarity of mind from being left alone with nothing but her hair and her hands for most of her life because women are nothing more than lips and wombs and her fiancé spends all his time sailing away from his duty and away from Denmark and away from her because what has love ever been good for when you never outgrew your adolescence? - testosterone has always been more trouble than it's worth, she thinks, and fantasises about playing chess with Gertude (can she truly call Gertrude her mother-in-law? it's something she's been deliberating over for far too long - after all, this engagement has been a rather drawn-out affair), the two of them perched in the boughs of this same willow, black and white checkered board balanced precariously on a protruding knot and Ophelia already knows that she will lose - Gertrude has been playing games with higher stakes for years; Ophelia is just a girl in the face of Gertrude's wizened veneer, a pawn to her queen, checkmate is what the elder will say, with no real malice or passion in the even tones of her voice because they both knew it would never end any differently, so Ophelia bows her head and smiles slightly because she is only good Ophelia, pure Ophelia, sweet Ophelia, young Ophelia - smart Ophelia has never been one of her titles (and neither has dumb Ophelia so she counts her lucky stars and hopes not to see them wink out one by one) - so here sits our Ophelia in the boughs of the very same willow that will one day kill her - (she will be called mad Ophelia, pathetic Ophelia, and women not so young will look at the portrait a man paints of her corpse and wonder if she is freer as she floats down the stream) - here we watch our dirt-soled Ophelia, free-haired Ophelia, gazing up at a fortress built of stone and waiting for her tragedy to begin.

tw for police brutality and distressing content

You were born crying. I wonder if you knew what fate had in store for you on that hot June evening, so you came out of the womb grieving for the life that lost in a gamble of skin color and a mind working with tinted lenses. They said your smile had the aura of honey - molasses poured over an already sweet breakfast - because that ear-to-ear grin was the cherry that took the cake.

Your mother loved you, she still loves you, and she will always love you. Remember how she always said that you would live longer than her, and her grandchildren would have your beautiful brown skin and your cute dimples. She'd give you the secret recipe to her chicken soup - the one she'd always make when you were sick, even if you were faking it - so you could make it for your kids.

So when she hears the news that you were shot on the way back home, she drops to her knees and lets out the loudest, heart-wracking sob, and God hears it and cries too. She thought the gunshots were just those families setting off fireworks and firecrackers for the Hell of it, and the butterflies in her stomach were for nothing. 

She knows the risk of being black. She prayed every night and every morning you had to leave the house that you would return. No matter if you had a smile or a frown on your face, or if you had a story to tell her about some kid bullying you. As long as her baby came home at the end of the day, that's all she needed. 

When you didn't come home, and a police officer was at her doorstep instead, how else was she supposed to react? Grief grabbed her by the throat and choked the sobs, enveloping her body with a cold, numb feeling. You weren't going to come home. Never. 

Her baby was dead on the streets. She wished it was her dead instead of you.

You were terrified for your life - you were walking home, and you saw the police cars, and that fear took hold of you. You tried not to walk faster, but when a voice called out to you, your hands moved up almost immediately, shaking. Terrified. No one blames you for it - the peaceful protests have been going strong, but the riots get more coverage on the news, and your brothers and sisters are the ones in the wrong for fighting for basic human rights. 

The police officer was afraid of you. They asked you to step back, but you couldn't hear them over your pounding heartbeat. They kept asking.

You weren't complying. You were a threat.

You fell to your knees. They were yelling, but you were having a panic attack. Sharp breaths, shaking, shaking, cold sweat, you don't want to die. A mantra, echoing in your mind, louder than the screaming police officer unholstering their pistol. Deaf to the sound of your breakdown. In the back of your head, your life flashes before your eyes. 

Mama loves you. A birthday party - how old were you? It didn't matter, because all you needed to know was that you were happy. Your first kiss - it was sloppy, you were young, but it was a first. That time you were scared by an alley cat and your friends laughed at you for it. That presentation in your English class that you got a perfect on. Your best friend belting whatever song was on the radio, and you laughing and singing along. 

You don't want to die.

You had so much ahead of you. You hadn't even graduated high school yet, but you were so close. Your grades were good, and you were thinking about college. You wanted to be able to visit your mom, so some university nearby was perfectly fine with you. 

You don't want to die.

You hadn't even had the opportunity to find the love of your life, and go on romantic, cheesy dates with them. The chance to argue, to get mad, to cry, but communicate and have everything turn out okay because you wouldn't want to break up with the love of your life over a stupid argument. You'd be loyal and send them silly memes and cute pictures when you're apart and be plain stupid because love does that to people.

Please.

Introducing them to your mom, nervous about whether or not she would approve.

Please.

Her smile - gentle, soft - melts away all your anxiety, and you laugh and help your mom when she tells you that she's going to make a celebratory dinner. About time, she would say, and you'd roll your eyes and smile at your love, and that would be that.

I don't want to die.

The gunshots hit you before you can even scream — four of them in your back. You bleed out in the street. A bystander caught the entire ordeal on camera. 

You didn't deserve it. 

I'm sorry. No amount of apologizing will ever bring you back. But I'm so, so sorry.

“Is that him? Is that Dolorez?”

“Who is that?”

“He was so famous.”

“Famous in what?”

“Writings. What? You don’t know him! Are you serious?”

I could no longer listen to the stupid chattering of the young lovebirds. They were so irritating. I tried not to do this. And I could have stayed peacefully within the four walls of my apartment unless it was for Benji.

Benjamin, he always stayed a good friend of mine. He was with me in all the highs and lows of life. I would always be indebted to him. He is the only reason why I still exist.

The place was quite empty for a coffee shop. The clouds brimming with rain and the usual Sunday routine might have kept everyone home. The clouds darkened, even more, signalling a heavy downpour. Yet, here I am, waiting.

Not exactly waiting, I was quite early. I always was. I was known for my uncompromising punctuality once. I always reached my venues long before I was required. It was not due to any particular reason, I just loved doing so. I would then simply watch people. Years of self-imprisonment had failed in damaging my habitual actions.

As an author, I never ran out of inspiration. I realized inspiration is present everywhere, sometimes even in the simplest of circumstances. We run out of inspirations when we stop looking for it. All we have to do is look for it.

A few moments later, a stout man, nearing his fifties, reached the cafe door. He pushed the door open and made his way in. His brown jacket had lost its tone considerably in the rain. He wiped his nearly bald head with a handkerchief and took a glance around the cafe. He straightened his spectacles to improve his visibility.

Recognizing the probability of the current situation to last forever, I waved my hands at him. He responded with a grin and waved back at me. He took the seat against me.

“Aging affects you, Benjamin Poward.” I said with a smile.

“I know. I know.” He paused for some time. “I hate to say this. But… I missed you, buddy.”

We talked for a long time. The long conversation reminded me of how I used to laugh. It was terrifying. It could possibly haunt a little child for years.

“I want to tell you something,” said Benji.

“Please proceed,” I replied.

“It’s time.”

I was confused. “Time for?”

“Time for you to come back. It has been too long. You can’t do this anymore.”

I simply smirked at the comment and glared out of the window. I could never do that. It was my decision to stop. I could not let anything change that, not even Benji.

“Look at me when I speak.” Benji nearly shouted.

“Let me remind you that you are not currently at Cambridge and I am not one of your students.”

“Denny, it’s not funny. FIVE years, it has been five years since your last project. You are ruining your life. Just, just don’t do this to yourself. It was not your fault. It was her deci..”

“It was my fault.” I stopped him before he could complete.

“Alright, we went through this before. Not once, not twice but more than enough. Alright look, I agree. It was your fault. You were not there when she needed you the most. You were being an absolute idiot. You were obsessed with fame. You never even thought about her. And when she finally left this world, here you are, staying inside a room, locking yourself out from the entire world. Do you think you are doing this for her? Do you think you are making her happy? You are NOT. This is not what she wanted. And, you can’t give her what she wanted anymore. Because she is gone. She is gone. Gone. And if you want to do something for her, BE YOU. That’s what she always wanted. That’s what she always loved. Can you do that… for her?”

I was petrified. I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know what to tell him. I always believed I had to do this. Whenever my mind asked me why I refused to respond because I never had an answer. Maybe I was trying to do something for her. But in the insides of my insides, I knew this was not the right way.

“I am sorry,” Benji told me.

“No, no, you are right. You were just... a little too fast.”

We both smiled at the comment. I always used to crack jokes, in the most unsuitable circumstances. I could never let go of my awkward sense of humour.

We shortly finished our coffee and walked out of the cafe.

“So, what now?” I asked Benji

“I have to go back. Got some work to do. What about you?”

“I don’t know, really.”

“Denny, just think about what I said, alright? And call me when you feel to.”

“I will. I will, definitely.”

A moment of silence between us. Then, he gave me a friendly hug.

“See you later, buddy. Take care.”

“You too.”

He patted on my shoulders and started walking away. Some rare intuition in me called out to him.

“Benji, you were a very good friend. Thank you.”

He smiled, “For?”

“Everything.”

I felt so happy on my way back. The streets of London were so stranded. I had never felt this happy in years. I felt so satisfied. And it all felt so great.

Now I had a promise to keep. I needed to get back to the world. So, I tried to go to my mind palace. My mind palace is where all my stories developed. I could create my own realities in there. I could create my characters, locations that do not exist, situations that will never happen, and so and so. But currently, I found it blank. Suddenly, it started raining.

I looked around for cover. I found a bench near a shop that was shielded from the rain. I ran to it. When I was making myself comfortable on the bench, a little girl ran across the road to me. She seated herself on the bench and took off her raincoat.

Somehow, I found the kid so familiar. I noticed the kid had brown eyes and hair. She beamed at me. I felt it strange and quickly looked away. It was cute. But, I was not yet ready to be smiled at by a stranger. It was just a small kid, but still, I found it difficult.

The kid asked me, “What’s your name?”

“Daniel,” I replied.

She was no longer talking. I found it more comfortable to watch the rain quietly. But, the familiarity of her face created ripples in my mind.

“Are you not going to ask me my name?” She asked.

“Oh, what’s your name?”

“That’s sad. You are a grown-up.”

“Alright, just tell me your name.”

“I expected sorry.” She looked at me cunningly.

I actually could not stand it. But, considering the fact that it was just a kid, I gave up.

“I am sorry. What’s your name?”

“Sarah.”

Sarah. Sarah Elizabeth Watson. A wave of memories took control of my mind, actually my entire body. I loved her. I loved her more than anything. And I lost her. Benji was right. I lost her.

“What are you thinking?” the kid asked.

“Uhh... Nothing. My wife’s name was Sarah.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

Surprisingly, in a short time, I found myself engaged in a conversation. A few moments later, she asked me, “Do you know the Avengers?”

As a young author, I was unaware of the outside world. Sarah once pointed Barack Obama to me and I asked her whether he was a pop singer. I really lacked enough information to answer the question.

“I don’t know. Is it a music band or something?”

She laughed. She laughed so loudly that the sound of the rain was now sunk down by her voice. And I somehow enjoyed her company.

“Why did you say your wife’s name ‘was’ Sarah?”

“Well… she has gone somewhere far.”

“Well, why don’t you go there?”

“It takes a lot of effort to go there.”

“Does it cost a lot of money? You told me you are rich.”

“I don’t think they take cash, kid.”

“How about a card?”

“They don’t take any sort of payment, as I heard about it.”

I didn’t know how to tell this small kid all these things.

“Well, is it a good place?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, it is. It’s beautiful.”

“Have you gone there?”

“I don’t think they offer a return trip”

“Well, do you love her?

“I do. I still do.”

“If it was me, I would go there. I can stay with the one I love in a beautiful place. What more do we need?”

Though the rain had left us, her words struck me like lightning. I suddenly felt so different, so complicated.

“What’s the time, Mr.Daniel?”

“4:30”

“Oh, I have to go. See you soon, Mr Dolorez. Bye.”

She ran away, across the road and away she went. But, my mind was hanging on a single question. It was not actually a question. It was an answer. An answer I searched for years. And it was so simple. Is not everything? All the complicated situations seem to have the simplest answer. Like in Mathematics. You solve a huge problem to see the answer was nothing but a zero.

Hours later, I found myself in my room. The room that kept me locked for a long time. But, today I found the shackles to be weak. Like I have finally discovered freedom. Freedom from my mind, my thoughts, myself.

I always believed that every day teaches us something, that can help us discover a better version of us. We just have to find that something and accept it with our heart, or brain, to be scientifically correct. And I have all reason to believe that I have currently attained the best version of myself until this day. Maybe tomorrow might mark a better me. But today, today is perfect.

I have noticed a general trend in suicide notes. They tend to be short. But, I can not make it short. I have a promise to keep. I have to put my best into this.

I have never found myself so enthusiastic about writing before. But, today is different. I will keep my word, for Sarah, for Benji, for myself. This will be my finest.

#fiction #opinion

┊┊┊┊⋆ ✧　 　 · 　 ✧　✵

┊┊┊☆ *　　 * ⋆

┊┊★ * On the edge of eternity is where,

┊┊* . *　✦ you’ll find me, waiting to hold your hand,

┊☆ ° ✧　 　 · so don’t think this isn’t the end of

★* our journey.

Oh no,

we’ve held forever a long, long time,

meaning, it takes more than death’s cruel fate

for us to never have another pretty date.

Together,

is our promised forever, truly, it’s divine,

so look for me there,

whatever happens next,

after, life.

i wonder

if fear is internal or external

if none of the world existed

would my soul still be entrapped by fear

does it live within me

could i exist without it

what would that feel like

to be

unafraid

**tw for eating disorder and not-so-great mental health**

you’re not// or at least that’s what you’re telling yourself// and then it’s true// because the ache is something// something clawing and alive inside you// something more than there’s been// because you’re drained// and it’s not the hunger

it becomes a challenge// count the hours to see how long you can last before you give in// and it gets easier as you go along// because chewing seems ludicrous// and you say you’ll eat the soup you made earlier but you can’t bring yourself to// not that it’s bad// not good either// but there’s tandoori in it and it makes your mouth water for a second// but you think too hard about it and you feel sick

this is a dance// you haven’t been doing until recently// you told yourself you’d never be one of those people// but here you are// it was never because of your body// though the effects are a bonus// if you cut 500 calories// you’ll lose a pound a day// seems too good to be true// but that’s not why you’re doing it// oh no// you’re doing it because you’re sick and tired of feeling sick and tired

the clawing is rising// you can feel the edge of the growl coming// before it rolls back down into your stomach// and you ignore it// and the weakness in your limbs// because it’s not worth feeding something that doesn’t do shit anyway// it’s a waste// and you’re a waste// so why don’t you just waste away

Esther and I, I and Esther

I had her and she had me

That’s all we ever had, and

That’s all, we ever wanted.

Today. Today, I will have my revenge. Today, I will make them pay for every sin they have ever committed. Today, Esther will finally find peace.

We were orphans. Had no one else in the world. But she never, in my life, made me feel alone. We laughed, we cried, we played, we fought. She was always there for me. She was my father, my mother, my sister, my everything.

“Esther, Esther.” I tried to wake her up. I knew she never would. But, an absurd emotion took hold of my mind; Hope. It tried to show me light when there was nothing but darkness.

Today, it all comes to an end. Today, I will have my vengeance. Today, my sword will taste bitter blood for one last time.

I made my way through the stone laid path. I knocked at the carved wooden doors. He was on the run for long. Long enough. The silence did not last long. The open doors revealed a tall, well-built man. But, his eyes were no longer terrifying. They were impassive. They simply stared at me.

“You are here to kill me,” he said. I stayed silent. Suddenly, he fell on my legs. I quickly moved backwards. But his act was not one of assault, but of submission. He was crying. “Forgive me, please, please do not kill me, please don’t.” he pleaded.

For a moment, an Evelyn I had long forgotten captured my mind. Me, Esther, our little home. But not for long, the loud cries of my sister filled my ear. He was still crying “Please, I am sorry, I am sorry.”

“Maybe God will hear you.” A sudden swish of my sword displaced his head from his body. Blood. Bitter blood. But no more. It’s over. I have had my revenge. I have had my vengeance. Esther will now rest in peace. And maybe I will rejoin her one day.

Esther and I, I and Esther

I had her and she had me

That’s all we ever had, and

That’s all, we ever wanted.

#fiction #opinion

y.o.u...a.r.e...m.y

★moonlight★

s h i n i n g t h r o u g h

~the~clouds~

(even in the)

*dark* of *night*

/\/\/\ to cast /\/\/\

--- your beams ---

《upon my face》

s t r e a k e d

[with tear tracks]

y/o/u t/o/u/c/h

_my_cheeks_

^with^

=your=glow=

～as if ～

t o w i p e a w a y

‴the‴tears‴

|and tell me|

‘it’s going to be okay’

{i believe it}