i wish i stayed inside my mother, never to come out:

i. i have never cried over spilt milk but have shed tears for the broken teacup, mug, glass, whatever receptacle was forsaken of its usefulness out of my carelessness.

ii. i'd be lying if i said i could walk on eggshells. i used to walk on tiptoe, in fact, until my mom flagged it as a mark of low self-confidence, along with the way my eyes wandered when i spoke with someone, the subtle hunching of my spine, the supposedly feminine instinctual crossing of my legs. i thought it quirkiness: heels and eyes to the skies, always eager for new, new people, new things, new stories. something uniquely mine. how many of these little badges we once wore with pride have become our downfalls, our faults?

iii. multiple times a year, my gut blisters and tears itself apart. the first image that comes to mind is the fizzy alka-seltzer tablets my grandparents used to consume daily, wreaking their minute devastation upon a tepid glass of water. the scar tissue forming over the unseen ulcers are reason enough for my body to score the natural seam once again. it’s a fire i have inherited from my father, who in turn inherited it from his mother. has my own flesh become so infatuated with pain that it has forgotten what it means to heal?

iv. i am starved of light. there is a switch within me, that when on, illuminates the night sky to oblivion, olber’s paradox impossibly fulfilled. because when the sky goes dim, when the temple curtain is torn in half, i will burn so that you may see, so that you may live. like amniotic fluid, i will envelop you, encase you, sustain you: my breaths shall be yours, my blood shall be yours, my words shall be spoken from your lips, so you will never know that starvation like i did. constellations be ******, i will always be here for you whether you like it or not. there is a switch within me, and it is at once exhilarating and terrifying that you can flip it with a single word. why do i let you have that power over me?

v. i often wonder why this body, why this time. i have loved you so long i am not sure who i am exalting anymore, whose clay feet i am choosing to be oblivious to. you are my first musing in the early morning and final contemplation at night. i always forgot than we only ever reached almost heaven. the subtle understanding that what i can give you will always be too little, too much, too late, haunts me.

vi. i could never do earbuds, the sound waves ever-close to my cochlea, rattling the fluid inside its whelk-like cavity. no, i always needed distance: over-ear aux audio jack headphones distance. and when i couldn't afford distance, i made it, making do by cupping the speaker of my phone by my ears. like a smoker setting their cigarette alight, i knew to relish this small ritual of procrastination and retribution, quietly wishing for someone to share this feeling of lungs and heart dilating and contracting with me. music is my vice and my medicine, and it hurts me that others will never know the sublimity of the way a song makes me feel.

vii. i was once told by an almost-lover that walking barefoot in hotel rooms in disgusting. as a self-proclaimed germaphobe who (rather shamefully) does this, how could i have overlooked the reality? it only occurs to me now what ****, *****, sweat, ***** has seeped into the nondescript dark carpets, trace particles clinging to my heels. but i am no stranger to disgusting things, am i? no amount of handwashing, disinfecting, abstaining, good eating, or prayer could atone for my sins, could make me feel cleanly again. you are filthy, an animal among men: for what is hedonism but survival in the crude wild? i believe in a god who will pass judgement where and when it's due. was it so wrong of me to want to make a temporary home feel permanent? to forget about the dirt and grime that has settled upon this body over the years and yearn for the innocence i've so mercilessly slaughtered?

viii. once, a woman who was jogging tripped and fell on the sloped pavement in front of our old home. many passersby came to her aid immediately, offering hands and emergency phone calls. i couldn't have been more than eight, but i saw from the office room window and knew what i had to do. i grabbed a singular tube of neosporin and a handful of band-aids, running out the side door without letting my parents know. as i came closer, i saw blood peeking behind thin tattered veils of torn skin, like the sun through woven drapery. the sight was dizzying, and empathy pain shot up my arms and legs, mirroring the crumpled woman on the ground before me. i gingerly proffered the neosporin and much-too-small bandages, hands shaking. she managed a laugh, causing the small crowd that had accumulated to laugh as well, and said she'd be okay. my parents later chastised me for approaching the stranger but commended my "heroism", also stifling laughter. i've learned now that the thought is not the only thing that matters, and while i miss that sense of resourcefulness and utility, i pity the children that are taught otherwise.

ix. the soul of a stranger i hold dear knows not its limits. the sand continues slipping through my fingers, the people run their daily races. i am estranged from being, and it prickles at the nape of my neck like embarrassment upon answering the question wrong.

x. what you see as my weakness is not my weakness. wearing my heart on my sleeve may not be my strength but it is not a ******* weakness. i will give second chances, third chances, fourth chances, hell…i will give people all the time they need to grow because i know that, one way or another, they will. real people are not book characters. there will never be a tidy box to neatly file them away like one of the peter pan collar blouses in your closet, no definitive label either of us can ever bestow upon them. i love. i get hurt. platonic, romantic, it is all the same for me. but i will return to places i’m unwanted, the forlorn puppy, mangled and bruised, i will try time and time again to work on people and help them. this is my obligation, my prerogative. for every one of your hands retracted, i will extend mine in fellowship and camaraderie, taking keepsakes of thorns or roses. i will try because people like you will not.

xi. there are so many things that i want to scream with all my soul, but i fear being written off as mediocre, crazy, or worse yet, incoherent. i fear that people will not understand my messy prose and ramblings, that i will not be seen for who i am. you are nothing. you exist on a contingency, a technicality. you think you earned your way in? you are pathetic. there is no amount of catch-up you could play that would indemnify your pitiful existence. the stars were your playground until it all came crashing down....now, there is nothing left out there for you. i'm sorry to those whose boundaries i violated, whose weary faces i smothered with what i mistook to be affection. the world did not deserve to be burdened by me.

xii: can you not be happy that i can breathe now? do you have to bleed me dry of what precious remaining energy i hoard for myself? let me be selfish, let me be vain, let me indulge the machiavellian predilections i repress. how nice, how lovely must it be to have someone to be there to give you instant attention, constant gratification, always a shoulder to lean on but never one to cherish.

xiii. it's okay, no really, it is! i understand! you don't have to acknowledge me. i know sometimes i get a little caught up in the irony, the asyndeton, the metaphors and similes and aphorisms i wear religiously, seborrheic and unnecessary. know that i am nothing without my -isms and -izations and holier-art-thou judgement. i don't think my friends understand that i feel less than human in their presence, because since childhood, i knew if nothing else, i was endowed with mediocrity as my birthright. i implore those i love to leave, stop reaching out if conversing with me ever becomes a chore. i ask in earnest because the last thing i want to be is a burden, an outstanding box to tick on a checklist...i ask but i fear their response.

xiv. ergo decedo. therefore, leave, or so the fallacy goes. i have no mind for rhetoric or satire. i had the nicest plans, but dear god does not want it that way. this is goodbye.