22

I turned 22 last Tuesday, nothing special. I didn’t even tell anyone at work. I don’t know, for me it’s just a regular day. I did try to be excited about it but nothing.

It’s my 5th month on the job, I’m tolerating it, I guess. I still think nursing is not my thing. The whole soothe your patients, take care of them gig, not really my forte. 

Patients die on my shift and I ceased feeling  anything, just blank apathy, and relief because it’s one less patient to mind. Maybe because it’s a really common thing  our ward that I got used to it. I don’t know. 

I just don’t feel anything right now. So much for 22  

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Can’t sleep

My sleeping pattern is so fucked up lately; night shift does that to you. Nothing exciting lately, or maybe nothing is exciting me nowadays. I don’t know, I kind of don’t feel anything much at all. I did buy a new stove, that made me a bit happy, I guess? 

I do have a crush. I know, I know, it sounds childish and all that but I really fancy someone. I tried chatting him up, and nothing. I’m freakishly awkward when it comes to  those things. I am actually questioning my feelings, if I do really like him or I’m just bored and want to feel something. 

I’m sorry this post is not making any sense whatsoever. I really just can’t sleep. 

Distorted Fairytale

You talked about suicide; about jumping, falling,  and bashing your head in on the pavement. You tell it as if it’s a page from a fairytale— bright, happy, and with birds circling over your corpse.

You talked about walking into the ocean; pockets full of rocks, and lungs full of saltwater. You told me about it, in a tone that makes it like you’re visiting mermaids at the bottom of the ocean, indefinitely.

When I found you on your bed, still as Aurora, cold as the Ice Queen, with poisoned apples on your bedside table, I thought about kissing you. That is how things are supposed to work right? True love solving everything, bringing light into the darkness, and making birds sing with abandon.

Apparently not. 

So I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was so blinded by our fairytale that I failed to see your darkness. 

Dark Clouds

It never really goes away, you know, that heavy weight on your shoulder, that dark cloud that hangs over your head that seems to follow you everywhere. You can feel their presence, only you can feel their presence, actually.

You want to scream at people to look at the cloud, to cut the phantom rope around your neck, but you can’t. So you give them your megawatt smile instead, throw witty assurances their way so they won’t suspect that anything is wrong with you. God forbid if they find out that you’re not right in the head. You are, after all, a calm, collected, reliable adult.

So you try to silence the nagging thoughts in your head that tells you that you are nothing but an insignificant speck on this universe. You try to quell the repeating visions of your death —it varies, sometimes a horrid car crash, sometimes a quiet peaceful death. You also tell yourself that the caresses of blade you feel on your wrist where your old scars are is just a  phantom thing from your past, like a pain from a missing limb.

So you just scream internally. Keep it all bubbling inside, waiting for the cathartic moment where you will (hopefully) be free from the dark clouds and phantom ropes. But you doubt if it will come, of if catharsis would equal to eternal rest.

There are good days though, it is not as sunny as other people’s good days, but it is warm enough. Probably more tepid than warm, but it is a vast improvement from the constant chill in your bones, the nagging weight on your shoulder, and the dark ominous cloud overhead.

Those days you cherish. There is only so much sunshine that your dark cloud can allow you. It’s not that you refuse to fight it and actively seek sunshine from somewhere else, it just hangs there, out from your reach yet near enough to block the sun.

Those good days are the only thing that keeps you afloat during the worst. A silver lining, if you may. So while waiting for it, you just keep on swimming.

I can’t do poetry

I can’t do poetry, I never had the patience for rhymes and meters. Pentameters, a-a-b-c’s,  couplets and whatnots, spare me.

I can’t do poetry, symbolisms and metaphors fly over my head like sarcasms on a literal person. Blue skies are just fucking blue skies for me, okay.

I can’t do poetry, I don’t know how to group stanzas and lines. My writings always linger between being prose-like or a half assed, badly done, deconstructed poetry.

I can’t do poetry because I can’t translate my emotions to words. I’m numb, I’m cold, I’m stuck in a rut. Poetry cannot be stone cold and empty, can it?

I can’t do poetry. I don’t have the heart for it, okay maybe also talent and patience, but mostly heart. Probably because I’ve lost my heart while searching for poetry in you.

Calluses

“You know when you write for too long the side of your fingers chafe, it will be red,  slightly tender, and warm. Your skin will repair itself eventually, but then you would write for too long again, your skin would chafe, your skin would heal. Overtime you would have calluses, and your skin wouldn’t chafe anymore. Calluses are tough, rough, and they decrease the eventual pain.”

“What is your point?”

“Don’t give me hope. Enough hope that I may decide to do something about the calluses. Don’t make me forget all my scars, especially if you’re going to leave me with new wounds. I can deal with my old pain but I don’t think I can take new ones, much more so if it’s you who inflicted it.”

“I can’t promise you. I can’t promise you anything, actually. I can’t promise that you won’t get hurt, I can’t promise to not give you hope when there’s none, I can’t. But I will try, I will try to do my best not to hurt you, us. Pain is inevitable my dear, but I will try to soften it. Even if it means I will be hurting more. You’re not the only one with scars, with calluses, but I will be willing to take more wounds for you.”

Seven minutes in heaven

You kissed him, but it felt wrong. You think maybe it’s just the technique; the depth, the tongue, the position of your lips. You try to deepen the kiss, try a different approach. Pull him nearer, grab his hair, let his hands roam your body. It still feels wrong.  Instead of feeling heady, you are more aware of how slimy his saliva is and how clammy his hands are. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, burning your skin in an unpleasant way.  You feel a heavy lead settle in your stomach,  and it’s not the pleasant one that you know, the one that you feel when you explore beneath your blankets at night.

You control your breathing. Hitched breaths between slow ones. You will yourself to like it, to feel at least a smidgen of heat. You should be ecstatic, you think, you like him after all and all your friends know it. That is why you will be in this closet for the next seven minutes.

When the seven minutes are up, he lets go of you then gave you one of his lopsided smile that you love so much. You smile back politely, go out of the closet before him, still feeling nothing.