Teenage Desperation
By Arushi (Aru Shan)
Every evening,
after squandering all the opportunities
of a shiny and brilliant future,
I return
to the same desolate monstrous
cave of my little room
where bits of paper and
some sharp cuttings of my naive fantasies
lie scattered
amidst the big
demonic puddle of reality
crashing straight
through the faulty cities
in the stems
of my cold spinal cord
which connects to no brand new
polished bottles of fluid hopes.
I lock myself in
and chain my feet and hands
to the floor of truths.
Like a prodigal son
I do return
to find the world
throwing around parties
celebrating me
and the broken dreams
that
will forever be stuck
in my fruitless
imaginations of freedom,
the very way a bayonet
is all a soldier carries in his heart
to live
for he knows
without the knife
the wound would bleed faster,
gushing out like beautiful waterfalls
of Niagara.
Crumbs
of my frozen tears
suck all the life
my face could have managed to fake.
These days, I sleep more often; my preferences have changed sides and cheer for the murkiness in my stone eyes from nightmares that are not dreadful anymore. My room or cage, whichever sounds appropriate more than the other, is also a castle of smoke that, incidentally, vaporizes the liquid in the tiny vial of emotions that was not considered valuable enough for the survival of my shrewd identity. It is, indeed, amazing how the window does not reveal those glittery skies of possibilities again; the same way I used to behold in my reveries before setting out in the search of mere illusions. I do not know what it is that breathes in my ears when the giant door opens, whether the murmur of lost chances or the brutal shattering of my heart into needles of boundless pain.
By Arushi (Aru Shan)
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