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I.

There is nothing you can do or say to take your words back. I inhaled, exhaled, and released. That’s how you survive; breathe all those seconds, minutes, hours, days and years, isn’t it? You breathed, and the air seemed to rush out of my lungs, leaving me breathless and gasping for air. You tightened the noose with every word that you uttered and congratulations, you succeeded in strangulating my veins, crushing my bones and dissolving my cells. I’m hollow. Look into my eyes, and we’ll see who’s the first one to flinch. This time, it might not be me after all.

II.

Love is a long lost and forgotten emotion. Dead people can’t feel, dead people don’t love. Dead people can’t feel satin soft fingers sliding down their chest and into the curve of their abdomen. Dead people can’t feel warm fingers massaging their scalp and the tilt of their lips. Dead people can’t feel salt water streaming down their cheeks and soaking their t-shirt. Then why do I still rock back and forth at night, caressed by visions of when it was I who possessed your heart, mind and soul, rather than you clutching my wrists and rattling the marrow of my bones. Why do I feel like I can breathe; am I not dead?

III.

I’m naked and standing before your judging eyes, the same ones that once used to make me feel loved till the end of days. I believed you, when you said we’re two survivors dangling onto the thin rope for our dear lives; but I was too blind to see that one day it would be I nailed to the crucifix, trying to hang on to my achingly raw limbs. I feel like I’m being tried to pierced apart and pieced together, both at the same time. You might as well be holding your slender hands to my throat and squeezing with all your might, because that’s how I feel right now, under the glaring sun and the glare of your eyes. The square is empty, but it doesn’t matter, I always did say that you were my world, didn’t I?

IV.

We love to fix broken things, it’s a human tendency. I remember my father just couldn’t bear to walk around the house and see something broken. It practically killed him, and with all his unskilled expertise, he told us to “get our hands dirty and get workin’ for this is what life is for some people.” You too are a lover, a lover of broken things. You embraced me in all of my brokenness and gave me a new life to live. While in your hands, I fell apart and came, together. I was pierced apart and pieced together. Your hands were the only balm my still-bleeding wounds and scars needed, wanted, accepted. You bandaged not only my wrists and legs, but also my soul. It was grey, with holes of despair peeking and poking through; like the Ozone layer. But you personally called the sun to fill my lungs with some of its light, enough to last me for life. I never did tell you that the sun didn’t come, did I? You just assumed, because suddenly my soul was new and whole, filtering in all shades of the rainbow. I never did tell you that it was your smile, your words, and the way your eyes crinkled at the edges when you laughed that made me feel alive.

V.

Crossroads. I remember telling mi ma that I wasn’t a big fan of choice. Even after all those years, I’m still the same 5 year old girl inside. But my memories are not going to change the fact that I am still standing at crossroads. No matter wherever I try to glance, it’s always the same thing that I see. On one side is a your cursive that has etched “Dead” onto the blank sky with a thick jet black sharpy, and on the other side, with stardust falling from rainbows is traced, “Alive”.

Crossroads, I always did hate them. Now you see why I’m dead or alive.



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