Probably the worst thing after seeing a person dying, is seeing a person depressed.
They talk to me, and they try to make me feel better, but the weight that ties down my heart like a stone sinking ten miles below sea level, isn’t so easy to weave into words.
So they misunderstand me.
They give my darkness names.
Some call it ego.
Some call it denial.
Some call it vanity.
But the truth behind every drug addict curled up in a cardboard box under the abandoned bridge of West Harlem isn’t where they chose to escape, it’s why they chose to escape, why they had to.
Sometimes what others do seems really easy till you take matters into your own hands.
The first time I came back from college and saw my mother still struggling with an omelette that kept getting scrambled, I mocked her because I didn’t know how blistered the hands that poured egg yolk into the frying pan was.
Years later, sitting in a dark room at 4 in the morning, smelling of cigarettes and a fractured spirit because something I had worked my heart into had been rejected again, I got a text from a friend asking how to write a poem to impress his girlfriend.
At that moment I knew how hurt my mother must’ve felt that day, to be questioned on the one thing her blistered hand refused to do despite of her heart breaking all over it.
At that moment I knew, how blistered someone’s soul can be with the bleeding red gashes of rejections and failures, so long so that nothing comes out of it anymore.
I’m scared because I’ve been rejected so many times, I’m terrified of my heart that still holds hope.
I’m scared because the bottle in me has leaked from so many places, I’m terrified of looking into it and finding only a seeping last drop.
I’m scared because my friend never understood, my mother had felt really hurt that day.