Senses

By Jahnavi Amara

Maybe I will never be able to smell it when it reeks of snakes crawling up my arms, knives dashing my wrists, leaves crunched up to nothing. Maybe I will never be able to smell it when I dance at the frail border of consciousness and death ever again, but I will teach myself the scent of victory.

Maybe I will never be able to taste the bitterness of the berries I choose, the biting cold of truth that never rests, the poison that my own tongue feeds me every time I say "I'm fine." Maybe I will never be able to taste anything sweet ever again, but I'll teach myself the taste of love.

Maybe I will never be able to touch the rough edges of yet another mask, the string of memories, the broken shards of glass. Maybe I will never be able to touch the velvet overlaying it all, but I will teach myself how to uncover it.

Maybe I will never be able to hear the cries of the wailing ghosts, the scratching on the walls, the chains clashing with one another. Maybe I'll never be able to hear the cry of the chickadee, but I will learn to compose my own melody.

Maybe I will never be able to see the fire burning in my heart, the ice melting in my veins, my lungs reaching for the air, my bitten fingernails, my mind building up higher walls, my fingers twitching to nothing, my body going limp. Maybe I will never be able to see myself dying everyday, but I will teach myself to make each day count.

Maybe I will teach myself to live.

Maybe.

By Jahnavi Amara