Prose & Poetry

welcome home, starling

you are safe now

Wistful, but okay

Wistful, but okay

Good evening. I just vomited some chocolate pudding-covered grains of sushi rice. The toilet bowl smelled of ammonia. The bathroom floor was dry and dusty. I never missed my mother this much.
This morning I woke up almost thinking she was really here. I realized it was a dream, though, an okay dream. Only that she wasn’t by my side. No one was by my side. I should be thankful enough I didn’t cry her name out loud. My dreams may be bigger than my sleep, but I am bigger than my dreams.
 
Good evening! My mother isn’t dead, if that’s what you think. I, too, haven’t died. I didn’t die despite my attempt, or should I say, attempts. Maybe it’s because I handle death like how I do my studies. Half-heartedly. Lacking attention. Missing details.
Loss of coordination. Memory losses. Nausea. Dizziness. Wait, wait. I guess those are the side effects of Zolpidem Tartrate.
 
Earlier this December, I had ten and a half tablets along with four benzos. They were all I could manage to hoard. I took my time to admire their pretty colors. Purple and soft pink. My favorite. I had hoped they would bring me to sleep. An undisturbed one. Long and peaceful. Inside a plastic bag. I tore it, stayed wide awake.
I am still alive, thank you. Some would say I failed, some would say I survived. I would say, at least I tried. The following night I made voice-notes, bragging about what I did and how, but never why. I sent it to two people, none of them were my mother, only one replied.
Does it matter at all who did reply? I wrote a poem about the one who didn’t. There, I had no eyes. He was a man named Perseus, gave me two eyes, and so happy I was. But everyone who tried to gaze into my eyes turned into stone. He told me to keep myself wide awake, so I did.
Wide awake. In a. Good evening. I am staying, thanks. For these eyes.
 
I just talked with my mother over a phone call. No video call, no gazing into each other’s digital eyes. It is Saturday night. She’s at home, I’m far away, mother and daughter both alone. It’s almost my semester break. Unless the break is not exclusive to semesters.
I don’t want to come home. Men are gone, why can’t I? Men are leaving home, so am I. Only that I don’t come back at 2 a.m. smelling of cigarettes and other household’s scent.
 
Good evening. Is it bedtime yet?

 

Oliv is often lost. Find this kid on Twitter, Wordpress, and Tumblr.
Waiting: Part One

Waiting: Part One

on dead objects

on dead objects