The Dawn of the Eleventh Day

full of imagery

Another August night, or so I think. My hair is blocking the sight, and my eyes won’t blink. Darkness, emptiness, a void in my sadness. And where are you tonight?

 

            From this height, I can see the emerald waters: they’re eating the shore. I can see the branches of trees; they are like your arms: bendable, beatable, unworthy of keeping mine. Listen, you are walking with her, hand in hand. Happy now? You’re walking right here again. Kissing her like how the waters ate the shore. Happy now? I will spit on you, just wait. This rope is already eating my flesh. If I could just push my hair a little away from my rotting face, I swear I will spit on you.

 

            Oh, remember, remember? Little Kricie wants to play, so she tied little Marvin on the lane. Oops, there goes the train, and little Marvin went away. And so the same with my heart; is it still with you? Let me see, let me see! Is it still beating? I said keep it with you, I said that it will always belong to you. That my heart will never beat for anyone else but for the boy who went away.

 

            Another August night, or so I think. I wonder if my skin would get paler, if my body thinner, if my eyes darker, and if my mind dimmer. And I wonder if this will burn forever, will this hurt greater, will this death stop never. Will I lose my color? My words and my melody; I’m singing melancholy. I’m silently calling the white birds to nest on me. Make the worms go away! They’re making me itch!

 

            I couldn’t look down. If I’ll try really hard, I’ll just decapitate myself and I’ll be pouring on you. How refreshing it would be, to feel your cold, dead, past caressing your shoulders, feeling your chest, kissing your heart and slowly… slowly dismantling itself as it glides away from you. And there would be nothing but ashes. Ashes and that thing I can never, never lose.

 

            So I will not spit on you because of this thing. This thing I buried so deep inside me, this thing that no one, even Death, can claim. I’ll just cry instead and tighten the rope around my neck so that I would not fall on you. And I will taste my tears, so that it won’t reach you. I’ll be contented, hanging here by a thread, as long as my feet can gently brush you hair. And I’ll smile a teary smile and pray, for the first time in a long time, that you would be fine.