What I learnt from being kicked in the throat

The first lesson my mother every taught me was the importance of books-- how to love them; caress every word with my eyes until they made sense. To embody the essence of it, until it became my own, something I could relate to. I learned early on that life was just an extended version of reading, that all things, real and imaginary, were subjective. That you could forgive anything if you delved into it deep enough.

(You tell me you want to get to know my soul, but you’re not ready for it yet. You would flinch at my heart spilled onto your plate. But I want to force you to eat it like the crusts of your bread.)

I spent my whole childhood wishing I could unzip my skin like a fat suit, and a new me would step out. I hated the line on my stomach, the cellulite on my thighs. I would have done anything to be like my skinniest best friend. When I was 19 my weight was on a steady decline. I couldn’t eat anymore. Almost every day I would puke it all out"food and everything else my stomach couldn’t handle. (There he was, swirling around the toilet bowl too).
I lost 7 kilos and I didn’t even notice. That’s when I learnt that life does give us everything we desire, but only once we’ve found things we want a lot more.

Here is my heart, my guts, my soul. Take them all I don’t need them anymore.

I learnt about abandonment when I moved country, and slowly neither place felt permanent anymore. When I sobbed for days at leaving my friends, but I blinked and they were gone. And  though I squeezed my eyes shut, it didn’t stop them from never coming back. And when the sun shone through the curtains day after day after day, I was slowly eroded, reduced to half a secret handshake. And the tattoo on my foot only served to remind me of the absence of its twin.

(I chased him down the road but he could always run faster than me)

I learnt about injustice when my dad lost his job and the ghosts behind my parents’ eyes took over their bodies. I learnt about tragedy when the images of thousands of drowned refugees seeped through the internet, and somehow people in power still turned a blind eye. I learned about personal tragedy when my childhood friend almost died and I forgot to talk for a week. (People said she had become heartless, but still I wished it was me, I wished it was me).

Here is everything I ever was, in this life, past lives, and the next. Take it all, I don’t want it anymore.

Years ago, I fell in love with an idea that I probably read in a book somewhere, and I watched my heart apply it to a boy who didn’t care. (Here is my personal struggle your God loves to talk about). I loved him silently. I projected it into the world, knowing I’d never get anything back. I loved him selflessly, hoping either way that I would. All that happened was he fucked me once, and then showed me again and again how unworthy I was of it.

(I think I still look for his voice down everyone else’s throats)

Sometimes I think about those two years where all I told myself was that I would never be that happy again, and I feel better knowing that I was right. I know I don’t have long left. 

And I’m okay with that. I’ve made peace with that.
Have you?

Author's Note

first submission