By Bhavya Mehta
Ma, will you understand if I tell you
that my sadness is like the empty cereal bowl
that you leave on the table every morning,
that it is like the black coffee stain on your uncreased white shirt,
it is the ice cold water you wash your face with on a wintry evening,
it is the leaf that stays stuck on the tree when the autumn storm gushes in,
it is the cloud that hides the moon on a beautiful starry night,
'Just try to be happy then!'
Yes Ma, I tried to be happy,
but my happiness has become a mirage
and it disappears every time I touch it,
so I scream for help while I'm drowning into my own illusions
but you tell me - 'It's not that deep.'
No Ma, it is deep! It is a world not far enough from your delusions,
where a mother is deaf to her child's cry,
and the man is blind to his lover's sigh,
where mercy screams for help
and the devil laughs over the angel's yelp,
where the Messiah lays down defeated,
stabbed by my sins and my regrets,
with a dead soul and love,
buried down at it's closed gates
Ma, there are voices around me
I don’t know if there are demons
under my bed or inside my head
but I can't sleep either way
so my insomnia romanticizes death at 2 past 15
in the middle of the night
and my anxiety cripples in
like a cork of your favorite champagne bottle
No Ma, I can't count sheep
because when it is 4 past 30
I create scars and when I say scars
I don't mean it figuratively but literally,
so the next time you see me wearing full sleeves on a summer afternoon
I hope you will understand
Ma, my thoughts are like those entangled earphones
that I don't wish to tangle anymore
and my mind is a kaleidoscope
that only sees darkness on the other end
Ma, no I am not afraid of the dark
I am afraid of the light
so every time force me to go to a party,
I don't because I see humans as chaos
and my only companion at all the parties is my social anxiety
and it has the possession of my soul,
my body is my cag
and I am struggling to stay in it
because it keeps shrinking under the weight of my own demons
No Ma, I am not afraid of dying,
Ma, I am afraid of living
not because I can't but because I don't want to
I asked you to hear me out,
but you didn't, you started talking,
you talked for hours about how you realized that it was just a phase
when you were 16 and I also remember that you mentioned
that I just need some sleep and fresh air,
and after that all your words just made sound,
But before I go, I just want to ask you -
'Ma, Will you understand if I tell you that
my sadness is like an empty cereal bowl
that you forget on the table every morning?'
By Bhavya Mehta
Sad but nicely