A Letter To My Ma

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