deeplovercloudbagel

[deeplovercloudbagel]

Another day, breaking out of unconscious,

remnants of last night's late hours collected in rheum.

So, I tried, unwilling yet terrified, forced apart my eyelids,

cold fingers didn't help.

Pale, icy, crisp, God, was I finally dead?

Wouldn't dare to blink and answer.

Camus said, experience yourself.

So, I stare and stare and stare.

Cellulite on my skin, a scar nine years old, that one stubborn mosquito bite,

unshaven hair soaring as the fan spins.

Camus, I experience nothing.

Question. Was I finally dead?

Shifted focus to my hand laying flat on its back.

A body of its own,

fingers looking up, are you looking up for the same answers?

Then I did what I was too afraid to do,

A moment of wasted courage.

And undoubtedly, my finger flinched.

I blinked, disappointed. Let's be sure, I said to myself

Flinched, again.

Not today I guess. I embraced the other body, pulled it back and stared at the fingers.

Not today, I told them.

So, I indulged, but what if?

I'd be gone as good as I came.

Untouched, unbothered, unfed, clean, conformed, well accepted by all.

Nothing sought, gained, or gifted.

Bruised just as much as I was supposed to,

when in another moment of wasted courage I said, Yes, I'll live.

So, in hope to be bruised, in colours of maroon and blue.

In hope to touch dirt, seek the unworthy unknown, the worthy moments that instigate courage.

Home for people, people for home. Pride after shame, love after fail.

There are so many reasons, I told the other body.

Failed to flinch.

You'll see another day, I told it.

And in next moment of courage, I wake.

[deeplovercloudbagel]

The bench was hard and cold, slick with morning dew that seeped through my khaki. A grey strand left on the pillow back home—soft, warm, but not the hour’s need. My stiff legs dragged me here for the 52nd year. She’d collect flowers in bliss; I’d watch her collect flowers in bliss.

"I must have flowers, always and always," she’d say.

"Monet?" I’d ask, and in the next breath, she’d bring me a world of colours. She would do that.

I gather today’s flowers for yesterday’s picture, the one that sits like art near the coffee table. I bring the flowers to her, and we share a cup of coffee. The spoon stirs little tornados in the cup, and I read from her collection of books.

But when life schemes otherwise, you simply watch.

Today, a little girl stumbled against my feet, greedily eyeing the flowers in my arm. I braced for battle. "I must have flowers," she said with the same beady eyes. I sighed at defeat and handed them to her. She spun on her heels, and frolicked away.

We met again for the first time.

She’d collect flowers, and I’d watch her.

The bench no longer aches beneath me, my legs no longer drag. I cannot hold flowers for her, but wistful winds guide them to her, and her through me.

Today, she is the age I first met her.

Today, she meets him.

[deeplovercloudbagel]

I’d be rich if I only had my lungs to offer. They’d inhale your anecdotes and exhale at your sight. They’d keep a chamber safe just for familiar pheromones when the air gets too crowded.

I’d be rich if I only had my spleen to offer. You’d stay clean, and I’d store the minuscule goodness in you for when you needed reminding.

I’d be rich if I only had my stomach to offer. You’d stuff it with your self-sufficient stories, and I’d digest them like your ears were incapable. It would expand, and for once, no one would question it.

I’d be rich if I only had my kidneys to offer. Quite literally.

I’d be rich if I only had my liver to offer. I’d let you get drunk on yourself, and I’d be okay.

I’d be rich if I hadn’t offered my heart.

But my face is what you see first.

No—I'd be rich if I only had my face to offer. It’s the untamed body, the audacity to refuse normativity. I’d turn myself inside out if I could. I’d bleed my adoration, and the gore would be feasted on. They’d be hungry for me when my muscles bore no shame, their mouths watering like filthy animals on the verge of dying.

The world was spared when I zipped myself into skin.

[deeplovercloudbagel]

I've looked inside. It’s not as crowded. The claw marks are fading. Sobbing has turned to humming. Sometimes, I hear a cackle—maybe a farce. I won't check. Sanity is knowing when not to. I'm no longer a surrogate to your grief. I don’t tell them how it looked before.

Impatience is disgusting. Progress is ostentatious. Righteousness is ambiguous.

I’ve dug crescents into my palm, learned to admire them and trace a twisted constellation. I see potential, the way a nebula holds the promise of a star. A moment of pressure, and I might form one. Or maybe this cloud of dirt is the aftermath of a dying one.

But I’ve learned to care, to remember, to think, and to do—to do as much as I can with this dirt. Dirt never made it to their sandcastles.

I eviscerate careful choosers in seconds. Keepsakes, never.

What do I have to keep?

What’s another bridge burned?

What’s a plot without grief?

[deeplovercloudbagel]

I've stood within the edifice of routine almost every day—the Metro Station. I enjoy teasing the limits of the yellow line, lingering just an inch beyond, as if it might swallow me whole into the maze of tracks. It never does, of course—not that I'm encouraging idiotic courage.

Like a soldier checking his ammo beneath his vest, I’ve clutched my heterotopia—the pod of my earbuds—inside my bag every day, confirming my lifeline was with me on this frisson of a journey through a sea of bodies swaying with every start and halt.

But yesterday, they died. Their light refused to wake, no matter how much I willed it.

So, I did what I was meant to do. I noticed every idiosyncracy.

The curious eyes of a child glued to the window. A weary head sagging against the oily glass pane. A worker’s hand slipping down the pole. A young heart blushing into the phone. A teacher flipping through pages of answers, stripped of art. Hungry eyes, scanning for the opportunity of a lifetime—a seat. (May the Hunger Games begin.)

I leaned against the door I had always taken for granted to remain shut. A loyal citizen of Panem, I rooted for the girl—her efficacy undeniable.

Of course, I carry a power bank. It didn’t last long before I stepped into the afterlife.

[deeplovercloudbagel]

My blatant unwilling attempt at life is remedied by her. Have you ever witnessed the world sharpen into colours? I have. I sit on the shelf, collecting dust—she picks me up, reads me when I’m untouched. She forgets the 268th time we said a word together, but bookmarks every moment I became more myself.

I knew I had eyes; she taught me they could be riveting. I knew I had nails; she taught me they could look different shades. Some people, involuntarily, shed life into others—she does. My laugh sounds like her, my happiness borrows her smile lines.

I call her i-can’t-not-have-you. The students who’ll fix the country twenty years from now call her teacher. So will my kid.

[deeplovercloudbagel]

You are a masterpiece before I even try. I give you depth, detail, devotion—while I remain an outline, insubstantial. I praise you before I even notice my own perfect smile. I shape you before I am even conscious of my own form. Why is the expanse of my skin just not as cherished as the sky? Why do I make you whole while I leave myself unfinished?

[deeplovercloudbagel]

He wore politics on his sleeves, his armor. He used it better than he understood it. He wears it loud on his tongue—on Facebook posts, in the way his voice split the air at the dinner table, no less than a battle cry.

As long as what he says stirs a fire, he knows he is right. As long as the other side is losing, he must be winning.

He smells his shirt, stale from lethargy and leather. Greasy stains of marital privileges become his badge of honour.

His palms are rough, not from scraping chalk against boards, teaching students who are never wise enough for his Aristotelian knowledge, but from a history bruised under his grip, a future tainted by pressing too hard and pushing too far.

His eyes shifted focus from the pole slick with fingerprints to the boy right behind it. This one would rise, climb, and quietly attain riches, unlike his own breed.

His phone chimes, notifications of the grocery list and agitated comments. He pays mind to the latter, forgets to buy tomatoes.

He believes in miracles though, he believes when he gets home and talks about the ways one can climb up the ladder, that'll do what it takes for him to retire on velvet, he'll then let his palm rest.

𝘕𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘙𝘢𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘪 𝘎𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵.

The boy gets off just in time, saving himself from the lecherous fantasies. While the man sits and continues to watch people — projector screens for him.

[deeplovercloudbagel]

"You're 15 minutes late."

"I know, I know, I had to stop and get medicines for baba, you know how it is."

"Okay but the leaves are turning orange now."

"What were they like when you got there?"

"Green"

"I'm on my way."

"You're half an hour late."

"I'm sorry, we had to buy a new car on the way. But I'm coming to you now."

"My feet are covered in burnt amber leaves, the trees are bare."

"What were they like when you got there?"

"Green"

"I'm on my way."

"You're 40 minutes late now..."

"I'm sorry, I met him in the middle of the road and he gave me flowers!"

"I'm standing in a puddle. The leaves are dripping water on my hair. I straightened them for you, they're all curly again. What about the pictures?"

"What were they like when you got there?"

"Green"

"I'm on my way."

"It's been an hour."

"I just gave my first lecture! They all cheered for me."

"What are the leaves like?"

[deeplovercloudbagel]

Can you hear it? My uneven, heavy breathing? It drowns out their words, the atomic molecules of dirt crunches under my feet—the sound atomic. It's deafening, this silence. If I could, I'd shove my fist through my chest and tear my heart out just to silence it, I'd press my skull hard enough to stop its static hum.

The effort manifests as fog, clouding my glasses. I don't know why I'm doing this—waking up, brushing my teeth but it still tastes stale, putting on fresh clothes that never seem to warm me, shoes on but I can hardly see my feet, I take the seat on the metro and someone sits right through me. Some can still see me. They know what I am. They mock my persistent struggle to prove I belong.

And somewhere in the back of my head, I hear Dickinson whisper—"I must go in; the Fog is Rising."