at twelve,
i suffered from eight grade syndrome,
of "getting your heart broken is pretty"
it really isn't.
at twelve,
you barely know enough of love
but at the first sign of abandonment
it hurt so much you don't know
what you should do about it

at thirteen, i met you.
you, with a basketball in one hand
and change in the other;
a fence separating us
it was the first we ever touched,
fingers merely brushing
but it was enough
at thirteen, i watched the stars with you
in an island away from the mainland
i wished that we would always be together
even if we will always
"just be friends"
at thirteen, i burnt my own skin
with a stick of eraser as if i was
trying to erase all traces of myself
in this world
but it wasn't enough -
i was left with wretched scars across my left arms that
i could not explain with
"my dog bit me"
you see, my parents have never liked dogs.

at fourteen,
we weren't friends anymore
so i drowned myself not in tears
but with a bottle of panadol that i found in the fridge
my parents found it (panadol) hidden under the pillow
where instead of the tooth fairy
was the grim reaper
waiting
to take me away
and instead of dying
i had to face a teary grandmother who loved me a little more than
i could ever recuperate
and parents who were less than understanding
i needed a "i love you"
but all i got was "how could you do this to us"
at fourteen, the guilt was overwhelming
so i tried to forget by pressing a pen against a notebook
so hard i eventually bored a hole in it
and when that didn't work out, there was always the rusted penknife that i hid in a shoes box
along with a tear-stained diary of happier times
at fourteen, i tried to move on from you -
put you away like a yellowing photograph i hid in a diary
somewhere
as you masked your pain with a cold shoulder
i was elsewhere, holding hands with a boy
i think that's when i found out
i loved you
in every sense of the word
i think
that's when you realised
that you loved me too.

at fifteen,
i cleaned up that ****** excuse of a life
put the blade somewhere i could never find it
broke up with the person i could never fall in love with
after that cross-country, we called each other
and fell asleep
ears pressed unto the phone
it was the happiest i had been in a long time
at fifteen,
i didn't tell you
"i love you"
even though  i wanted to articulate the three syllabus words so badly the past year
it hurt
and although our shoulders barely brushed against each other
across the hallways
and we barely held hands on dates
it was strange
that even if you are in vietnam, melting under the heat
and i am in nepal,
in a hotel room that overlooks mount everest
even if we are miles apart
you are still the only one in my mind

at sixteen,
things were slowly deteriorating:
maybe its the minutes ticking away,
slowly
until the hallways are no longer a place where laughter gathers
or maybe its the stress
of the national exams
we are barely adults and
yet we must decide our futures
as if we don't have 50 more years to decide
what we want as adults
at sixteen,
my friends are no longer friends
the hushed whispers across hallways
is only a prelude that
will eventually spell out a chapter of pain
that will lead me to a penknife
that had rusted in time but was just as sharp
or maybe if not sharper.

at seventeen, things are no longer same.
for one. you were no longer there.

is defined by the urban dictionary as a major realization in life; like getting enlightened by a great thought. I think of ephiphany as a great eureka moment – like when Archimedes steps into his bath and realizes the water is displaced by his weight. but I am no mathematician or a philosopher – only a seventeen year old girl who has never experienced even an inkling of what some would describe as suffering. but moments of ephiphany don’t only happen to great people in amazing circumstances. its small moments too – like how blissful it feels to be sipping a cup of coffee brewed at four am when everyone is caged by sleep. or taking a warm shower at twelve am, alone at home. or the short moments when I wake up – when I don’t remember who I am and what I have experienced. it is months of fighting a silent war – one between myself and everyone else. every pang of resentment is a sign – because no one can see the walls of your own heart shedding until the centre is hollow, not until they wake up one morning and realize that her sheets are stained red like every night her pillow is stained with her own salty tears. and she? she is no longer breathing.
.

“bite the bullet, train with fortitude”

I’ve repeated them to myself so many times, I can recite them by heart. I have repeated them so many times, I can feel the words as I try not to reach for a knife, for a release. I repeated them, like a mantra, like a silent prayer, as I try my best not to burst open. but it never works.

my pride is strong, but my pain is always stronger