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September 17, 2016

there will always be something
( to do, to go, to s a y — )
and it will hurt
Why what?
Blank sheet with three words stamped onto it and lines strewn across the sheet, says she has to
As if she knows the answer to it, anyway.
I don’t know, for the oblivious.
I don’t know, for a liar.
I don’t know, for someone like her.
She says she’s a liar as if she knows the answer herself. She says she ‘s oblivious as if she
knows exactly what she’s doing to begin with. She does things in so many pretenses she starts
to lose herself in translation too.
( She says that in a fake bravado as if she was someone to begin with. As if she has something
to lose in the first place. )
As if I would tell you, for the brave. For those who find themselves in a moment of epiphany
build of sheer curiosity, and understand, if only briefly that we are all going to die and
whatever we write will not matter as the ground tear us away of our simple shapes and form.
Where is I’m scared?
Where is, I am aware I would get lost in oblivion. Where is, why are you asking me when I’m
supposed to be asking you. Where is, I don’t want to know anything at all.



How do you take the essence of human being, tug the soul, and blaze it until you’re left with
nothing but ashes, and then reduce the ashes to a few words strung together, a sentence,
playing scrabble with the remnants of the ashes the alphabets written in blood. No room for
false pretense, says the judge, only truth and nothing but the truth. This is where it all comes
down to.
All humans are merely but a sentence.
( How do you describe:
Early dawn. The sun rising through the horizons, no clouds, only reflections, sunlight that
glimmers around your footsteps, dew falling of the leaves or evaporating to the air, a natural
You take one step and then back. There is no wall; there never were a wall. Steps hesitant,
pupils shaking. And then you take one small step backwards running away. What else is on
the other side anyway? You’d convince yourself, before the small steps turned bigger, and off
you were, away from the shimmering sky.
Fear, and hesitation; covering your expression. You don’t know why. )
( How do you describe:
Midnights, the creaking bed. Sobs drowned out by the music daddy plays. Heartbeats
drowned out by the silence of mommy’s bed. Then you’d look at yourself in the mirror, messy
hair and puffed eyes, “why am I not dead?” and you don’t even flinch.
You’d question, “When would be my time?”
And you want to follow your granny and step away, but then they would answer, “You have to
suffer a little bit more.” )
( How do you describe:
A midsummer’s night dream. Footsteps twinkling around each other in a moment of
euphoria, the sound of violin screeching combined with the gentle tune of the piano.
Then you’d ask, “Can midsummer stay, daddy?”
And he’d answer, “Nothing stays, honey.” )



( How do you describe:
Early summer. Golden. Golden sun, golden breeze. She wants to stay gold too, so she dyes her
hair blond to resemble the golden sun shining on that day.
Nobody tells her hair bleach hurts.
As if she has someone to talk to to begin with. )
( How do you describe:
Thanksgiving. Dead turkey stocked with mother’s secret recipe, and shoes all aligned in a row.
Floorboards creaking under everybody’s weigh, hidden by the volume of their laughter. Leaf
subsides to leaf, eden sank to grief, and dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
You sat in the middle of your aunts and uncles with successful children, and they’d ask you,
what have you accomplished across the year, with a taunting smile on their face. As if they
know your answer yet they’d still ask so for the mere pleasure of satisfying their rotten heart,
and convince themselves that there are uglier people with uglier fate than their children.
She says, not much, auntie; but what does not much mean? Not a lot or not at all? You don’t
know as well. )
( How do you describe:
Sunset. Orange dripping through the seams, refracted in a 360 degree, ripped through every
edge but it’s a masterpiece. Her golden sun sank, so maybe she did too. Nothing hurts, she
noticed with a belated realization, when she’s walking home after, not much anyway.
Schools are becoming tougher and slowly the burning in her hand from holding pencil one
too many times, stopped hurting. She got used to it.
So nothing hurts much. Just the tugging in her heartstring saying this isn’t where she’s
supposed to be, but no one knows how to look into her heart anyway. She’s old enough to
know that by now.
She won’t parade her scars around and asked people to kiss it better anymore. She’s sinking
too. )



( How do you describe:
Dusk. Beginning, in its essence. Sunlight peeking through her window, curtains moving along
with the breeze. The sun said, try one more time. She reluctantly nods.
Try she did, with all she might.
Which was also roughly why she ended up here. So whenever someone asked her, how do you
manage, she’d answer with a smile, the sun. )
She says, I want to know why too, doused in bitter honesty.
She says, I want to know why too, heart tugged inside her sleeves, wishing she could be
oblivious instead.

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