Oh - when I perish, let it be quiet.
Shall there be no grand speeches that carve my redundant name into others’ memories.
Shall there be no tears be fallen over my ultimate end.
Shall there be no voice falter in it’s rhythm.
But rather,
May the wind carry my essence and scatter among the trees, the rivers and the earth,
May my body be covered in forget-me-nots in tranquility,
May my body be held gently by the earth, as if I were never lost.
Oh - when I perish, let me vanish in silence.
Like a thread slowly unwinding,
Like a breath dissolving into the space above,
Like a doe, surrending to its death, in solitude.
Blood, dripping down my skin, my fragile skin.
Slowly it falls,
thin lines tracing paths,
veiling the blue rivers beneath,
until everything is red,
quiet, heavy, endless.
The skin, a prison which I never chose,
a membrane covering what cannot be tamed,
a barrier for a body I loathe,
a reluctant witness, bearing testimony,
to every slice, every scratch,
silently.
It remembers,
the razor’s bite, cold and clean,
the knife’s murmur,
as if they, too,
understood the weight,
of wanting to tear it all away.
To be free.
To be seen.
Or to be dissolved, unnoticed, into the endless stream of time and space.
I trace my fingers over the open lines,
vertical and horizontal,
a map of wounds I gave myself,
like paper stretched too thin.
This skin, aching to spill what it cannot hold:
the weight of grief,
the pull of longing,
which yearns to be known.
And yet, it stays.
The skin holds steady,
as the storm rages beneath.
And yet, I stay,
bracing,
waiting,
for the chaos,
ahead.
As i sit in my room,
isolating myself,
I can't help but ponder,
is this all that life offers?
Is this all that life can give me?
As I think, unable to make myself sure,
i slowly fall down to a deep, deep hole.
Nothing seems to be the same.
Nothing seems to be true.
Nothing is true.
Nothing matters.
But for the sake of others,
their happiness, their unscathed and innocent minds,
I must keep on going,
'til I collapse.
'til I rejoice with god.
Sometimes, I feel.. nostalgic.
Subconsciously, I look outside the window of the class.
The sun shines, through the leaves, as they fall down the yard.
The sparrow hops, the doves coo.
Oh, how peaceful.
Then,
I see visions of my little self, and wonder,
what will he do?
Will he smile in joy and happiness?
Will he run around like a squirrel, enjoying every drop of sunshine that falls down beside him?
Or will he tell his mother about the flowers that bloom beautifully on the grass?
About the ripe fruits, hanging on the branches, waiting to be eaten?
About the vast teal lake across the fence?
…
Reality kicks in.
So sudden, so painful, so miserable.
I over-wrap my wound for no purpose.
Maybe, I have a reason for that.
To not feel that sense of regret,
during the awkward moment when I take a glance at the exposed wound.
Blood may or may not come out of it but,
still it is shameful.
Tells me how vulnerable I am physically.
Then I feel like a burden,
because I can sense that somebody,
somewhere in my realm of acknowledgement of their existence,
at any point of time,
despises me.
After the loud noise,
from the barrel of the gun,
silence consumes,
as the lifeless body slowly crumples.
The room,
drenched in blood,
seeps through the floor,
a grotesque memorial of what once was.
The gore drips,
trickling, staining the floor,
and with it goes the remnants of life,
slipping away,
slowly lost to the cold, empty air.
As life continues,
outside the walls that bound time,
the silence lingers, vast and hollow,
and the truth of death rests,
upon the body which once breathed.
Blood was everywhere,
on the floor, on the walls,
staining the desk, soaking the sheets,
and on the sharp razor,
my skin unfortunately laid upon.
The wound,
opened its gaping mouth,
like a man, choking on his scream,
but drowned in the eternal silence of trauma.
Red tears it wept, in the eerie tranquility.
Each drop a confession,
of sorrow,
of despair,
wrapped inside such quietude, as time seemingly halt.
The gore trickled down my blue, thin veins,
a current of melancholia,
a river of grief,
reminding me of my fragility,
how easily I slip away, in peace.
In a bath of acid,
slowly I dip myself in,
slumping down, gradually.
As I close my eyes,
my skin falls off, layer by layer.
As my face rots,
my flesh liquifies, dyeing the bath blood red.
Though tender,
still I lay under the boiling waves of acid,
not moving an inch,
awaiting my inevitable death,
excruciating,
but tranquil.
My nerves scream,
signals of hope and regret,
still I lay beneath the bubbling surface,
stubborn and patient,
as if death were a choice.
And slowly I dissolve.
My body fade into nothingness,
leaving no trace,
no memory,
only a crimson tide,
devouring me bit by bit,
inhumane, unfeeling, uncaring, eternal.
Silence,
my cadaver float to the surface,
no skin,
no flesh,
just a bare frame,
of what used to be.
I am no more,
yet,
the world moves on.
Looking at the mirror,
tearing my face bit by bit,
until the skin is ripped completely,
shredded into a grotesque mesh of flesh and sinew.
I wish I had never existed,
if so, I would not be suffering,
I would not be yearning for the day my existence ceases,
I would not be praying,
day by day,
just for me to not be differentiated anymore.
Looking at the mirror, again,
hands trembling, horridly bloody,
nerves and veins, dangling from my worn-up face,
like branches from a weeping willow,
fragile, yet endlessly burdened.
I long for a peaceful life,
when everybody no longer treats me,
like an outcast,
like an anomaly,
of society.
But never will it be true.
I slowly rot in my room.
Hopelessly waiting for something,
that will either make me human again,
or just further objectifies me,
rendering me useless,
forgotten,
forsaken,
for life.
Memories keep haunting me,
carving its painful traces into my mind,
refusing to let go.
I don’t know if my life is basically miserable,
or was it the fact that I am the misery itself,
that I am a corrupted being,
failed creation,
though shaped by God’s hands.
I am, and always be terribly sorry,
for any burdens I have placed,
the disruptions I have made,
knowing full well,
no apology will ever suffice,
nothing will ever be enough.
I feel rather like an object, than a human,
defined by its flaws,
discarded by design.
Everything feels weird.
I feel replaceable.
I feel useless.
I feel unnecessary.
Maybe a knife without a blade,
serves more purpose than me.
I think I’m not qualified to be a human,
as my display of joy is unconventional.
No one needs my happiness to be shown.
I feel alienated,
objectified.
I feel like a thing.
I am just a thing to entertain others.
just a placeholder for others’ satisfaction.
I exist for people to be more superior,
to drain me of selflessness,
to choke me with insufferable demands,
to break me into pieces,
to bleed me dry,
until blood wraps me,
like a suffocating blanket.
But I could not do it.
I resisted,
accidentally, desperately.
I did not let people have all of me.
I failed everyone.
So I’m just very much a failed version of what I should be.
Maybe I’m just a by-product
an afterthought of something else,
something greater,
something more human,
that I can not fathom.
Or maybe,
living is just a form of punishment God has given to me.
Mom?
Dad?
Is this real?
Am I real?
Am I really precious like you guys always say?
Am I really your child?
Don’t illude me like you guys always do.
Don’t abandon me like you guys always do,
whenever I fail,
whenever I can no longer carry my responsibilities.
I want to burst into tears,
but my body will never react the same.
I can’t weep anymore.
So everything just hurts even more.
I just feel like a lost signal,
on a television.