Falling Up

By Lennesha Prescilla. M

There's an incessant itch to be heard without having to ask someone. While words live in darkness, a body freezes on its own and the last jerk of forefinger pointing life, strings forever to play a death song. The eyes stare wide open wanting to feel the gravity of the oceans within them once again. The sealed lips turn blue, as if a coating of sky on them wishes to roar and rain again. The echo of sobs travels ear to ear like a thread through a blunt needle. Bereaved families sprawl their torn skins across rooms for clues.

No sign, no proper goodbye no gratitude, no apology so in haste death swallowed. Hopeless hiccups brush throats when they dine with a vacant chair in sheer silence, until guilt overflows.

The clothes, books, shoes—

all watch these humans

who let one of their own die.

Had they known of the rivers

that ran inside the lavatory,

would they damn not dam them?

Alas, the ceiling felt like the sky

the knife felt like a sword

the poison felt like wine...

just because someone never

wanted to feel themselves

nor the world that was around.

Those who fell slow to sleep

must have rested in peace.

But never would these souls

whose bodies loved falling up,

make peace with the dust beneath

and the stardust within.

By Lennesha Prescilla. M