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#090523
I was twelve when the world collapsed— not loud. No explosion. Just a silence so thick it wrapped around my lungs and stayed there. They said, “He’s gone.” Like it was a story ending. But I was still in the room— staring at him, staring at death in a body I still wanted to hug. His chest didn’t rise. His hands were cold. The room was too bright, and I couldn’t find my own breath. My knees hit the floor. Hard. I didn’t even feel it. Since then, my body became a graveyard. I carry him in every joint. I carry him in every bruise I gave myself in the dark just to scream without noise. Some nights, my chest locks like his did. Some nights, I press my fingernails into my skin just to feel anything other than this ache. Pain became prayer. Blood became language. And the flashbacks— they’re not just in my mind. They live in my spine, my throat, my hands that shake when I walk past a hospital, or see an old man sleep. I still see him. In that bed. Eyes closed, like he was pretending. But he wasn’t pretending. He left. And took the light with him. Grandma found me once, curled in the bathroom, wrapped around a razor like it was a lifeline. She didn’t flinch. She just sat, and let the silence breathe. Then, through her cracked voice, she said: “When my grandfather died, the world stopped making sense. He raised me. He loved me. And when they buried him, they buried the only place I ever felt like I mattered.” “You think this is new?” she whispered. “Pain’s been passed down like an heirloom none of us asked for.” I didn’t speak. Just shook, and bled quietly into the towel I didn’t mean to grab. Because I know too much now. I know what grief tastes like— metallic and sharp. I know what trauma feels like— tight skin, locked jaw, a pulse that races for no reason. I know how silence can scream. I know how mirrors can lie. I know what it’s like to want to leave just to stop reliving. Colors don’t sing anymore. They hum like warning signs. But the blue… The blue still bleeds. It stains everything he touched. And I can’t wash it off. So I whisper at night: Please. Stay a little longer. Let me fall asleep without the sound of a flatline echoing in my skull. Let me be twelve again— before my arms became maps of pain. Before I forgot what warmth felt like that didn’t come from bandages. I wish I could see the world through those eyes— the ones that looked at him and saw forever. But forever lied. And now I know too much. Still… the blue hasn’t faded. It bleeds, but it hasn’t gone. And I wish. I still wish.
0
Jul 18, 2025
Jul 18, 2025 at 8:50 PM UTC
finia
Where the blue still bleeds
I was twelve when the world collapsed— not loud. No explosion. Just a silence so thick it wrapped around my lungs and stayed there. They said, “He’s gone.” Like it was a story ending. But I was still in the room— staring at him, staring at death in a body I still wanted to hug. His chest didn’t rise. His hands were cold. The room was too bright, and I couldn’t find my own breath. My knees hit the floor. Hard. I didn’t even feel it. Since then, my body became a graveyard. I carry him in every joint. I carry him in every bruise I gave myself in the dark just to scream without noise. Some nights, my chest locks like his did. Some nights, I press my fingernails into my skin just to feel anything other than this ache. Pain became prayer. Blood became language. And the flashbacks— they’re not just in my mind. They live in my spine, my throat, my hands that shake when I walk past a hospital, or see an old man sleep. I still see him. In that bed. Eyes closed, like he was pretending. But he wasn’t pretending. He left. And took the light with him. Grandma found me once, curled in the bathroom, wrapped around a razor like it was a lifeline. She didn’t flinch. She just sat, and let the silence breathe. Then, through her cracked voice, she said: “When my grandfather died, the world stopped making sense. He raised me. He loved me. And when they buried him, they buried the only place I ever felt like I mattered.” “You think this is new?” she whispered. “Pain’s been passed down like an heirloom none of us asked for.” I didn’t speak. Just shook, and bled quietly into the towel I didn’t mean to grab. Because I know too much now. I know what grief tastes like— metallic and sharp. I know what trauma feels like— tight skin, locked jaw, a pulse that races for no reason. I know how silence can scream. I know how mirrors can lie. I know what it’s like to want to leave just to stop reliving. Colors don’t sing anymore. They hum like warning signs. But the blue… The blue still bleeds. It stains everything he touched. And I can’t wash it off. So I whisper at night: Please. Stay a little longer. Let me fall asleep without the sound of a flatline echoing in my skull. Let me be twelve again— before my arms became maps of pain. Before I forgot what warmth felt like that didn’t come from bandages. I wish I could see the world through those eyes— the ones that looked at him and saw forever. But forever lied. And now I know too much. Still… the blue hasn’t faded. It bleeds, but it hasn’t gone. And I wish. I still wish.
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