Rosemary

I have a rosemary.

I got it green,

full of life and aroma.

But my rosemary lost its lean,

and went into a deep coma.

But I still water it every few days 

hoping it will wake.

I see the soil always wet,

my water it won’t take.

Maybe it was me that killed her,

maybe when I love I overwhelm

and water a bit too much

maybe sometimes I forget.

It’s either this or that,

either all or nothing.

I have days where love in me grows

and others where I can’t find it.

Maybe when it grows, I give too much away

and I am left without it.

But what killed my rosemary?

Was it all or nothing?

Hope

I can feel my feet shape the muddy ground beneath. I’ve been walking for over thirty minutes now. My undesirably hairless head is itching underneath my red cap. I lift my hand and scratch it. The itching goes away. Imagine if everything ought to be that simple. I recall the first time I ever experienced it, hair fall; my mother said it would regrow but I knew it wouldn’t. She said it is normal but I knew that nothing in my situation ever is.

My lungs wheeze as I breathe. That’s their way of demanding me to stop. I sit underneath the old pine tree in the most infrequent park. My tank rests beside me, as always. Scars and stories are engraved on this bench, one of those is mine.

I used to come here before the sickness struck, every Friday after school. My mother was used to me being late that day. I would grab a bag of vinegar flavored potato chips and get on my way. It was my hide out, my playground and my thinking space. On this same bench I used to engrave the name of the person that marked my day, either with happiness or sadness. I often would write Petra’s name. She was my best friend growing up. She used to help me so much when we were young. She used to advise me as if she was my big sister yet we were of the same age. Petra loved reading. She used to have quotes for everything, and that usually was the reason why I would write her name here. She once told me “Life is under no obligation to give us what we expect”. It was a bit too wise for her to say such a thing at our age. I did not understand her then. But I do now.

One would wonder what got me here today.

“Sweetheart I found a new experimental treatment, it seems really promising. Call me as soon as you get this, love you”.

 I got this message from my mother minutes ago.

I took a deep breath, several deep breaths and I started following wherever the road might lead.

“I do not want to try anything anymore”, I thought and for the first time that’s what I actually typed in that small space under her message. I pressed send and felt the weight of those words being lifted off of me.

My phone keeps ringing; it’s her calling, constantly. She must be worried. I lock my phone turning the screen black. She does not understand what I’m going through. She always has hope. She does not understand that hope is merely an illusion distancing her from the thought of me being gone and that I am deemed to suffer until she loses it.

I sit here waiting and I think of how long it has been since I have been waiting. She inflicted me with her hope of a resolution which I know is not possible. I am not ready. I never will be. So why wait any longer? Why endure more suffering? Why let her watch me fade bit by bit?

I don’t want to wait anymore. I’m not thinking of any goodbyes. All I can think about is reaching for the tubes on my nose and snatching them away. So I am, with a trembling hand and a soulless determination, I’m freeing myself and her. 

My phone keeps on buzzing. My breath keeps tightening. I keep wheezing. I feel some kind of relief as I stop breathing. My hand drops. My phone cracks.

I used to think that in this moment my life would flash before my eyes but all I can see now is my mother’s weeping face.

I want to breathe. I want to undo what I’ve done but it’s too late now.

As I draw my final breath, as it all goes black, I barely hear what seems as a footstep.

Hunger Bites

His worn out soles drag ponderously on the scabrous floor. He holds a sign in his trembling wrinkled hands which is shredded on its upper right. People pass by him; none of them bother to look at his long bearded weary face. His hand drops devastatingly along with the sign. It now trails behind him.

He follows the road; wherever it may lead for maybe it will break him out of his misfortune. He wanders on the most familiar road and his body steeps in front of the most familiar smell. He holds his head up sighing. His teary eyes stare at the rubbish cart and his hand grips. The rhythm of his footsteps slows down while he makes his way towards it.

 The streets are crowded with Louboutin heels and Rolex watches and the road is flooded with cars and their overwhelming noises. He presses his hand on his ear, breathes heavily and halts. He looks around in desperation at the lively world around him then looks back at that miserable cart which seems to be his only hope. A scar that reveals on his darkened hand, right under the sleeve, gives up quite a bit of his past. It seems as a burn scar. He pulls his sleeves back down, puts aside the sign and reaches inside the filthy cart.  It reeks but still he reaches for it. He searches thoroughly.

After a while, he comes up with a bag full of leftovers, a dozen of flies and a look of relief on his face. He grabs the bag tight, leans down and holds his sign. The old man looks up at the clear blue sky and gazes in its clarity, its holiness. He walks slowly towards the corner where he had kept his old brown blanket. He sits down and wraps himself with the pierced piece of fabric. He takes a deep breath and inhales the sweet scent of freshly baked bread from the fancy bakery just across the street. He opens his cherished bag and spreads the reeking goods on the sidewalk in front of him; a rotten apple, half a loaf of bread and a box filled with fries untouched. He chooses the apple to consume first and puts the other two back in the bag.  Meanwhile the sign, meant to reach out to those refusing to see the other side of their shallow world, lays facedown.

Here are some tips on moving on: Don't.

Stood still staring at nonentity seconds after I closed the door.  And then I saw it, the distance between me and the closest thing there is in front of me. I saw the emptiness that filled it all up. Footstep at a time, I got closer and closer and my skin touched its cold dead surface. 

I forced my self a little more against it. Still, no changes. No matter how close I get to it,  emptiness still voids. 

Your scent still breathed in the doorway, I could still smell a glimpse of it, its delicacy. Might it be you, might it be your presence right here in this room. I remembered you, and the way you used to scatter your clothes around our room just to find that favourite sweater of yours. I remembered your favourite perfume bottle which you always kept on our near bed shelf, how you would drown yourself in its sprays once you got ready and how you would walk around the house with your beautiful scent getting caught up in every piece of it. 

I breathed heavily trying not to consume all that's left of it. But it soon came to an end. And the hospital smell came across me. 

The horrid, painful smell of hospitals that I brought home with me was more than enough to clear my head from all happy thoughts of you. I screamed. I yelled. But it didn't relieve the pain. I blamed the god all of you talk about,  the god I once believed in. But it didn't  make sense either. What kind of greater purpose does this hold? As much as I hate to break it to all of you, it doesn't. Taking away a person doesn't and could never hold a great reason behind its cruelty. Leaving me with nothing but memories of him, my soulmate, is nothing but unreasonable. And there's no one to blame for it.

They say that it'll get better and I'll move on. But I don't want to. I don't want to move on. I want to move back.  I want to get you back, I want us back. I want to look into your eyes and gaze into your smile. I want to hold you and not let you out of my sight. I want to kiss you over and over again. I don't want to get back home alone anymore. I don't want to remember you and cry. I don't want you to be just a memory. You're not. You'll never be. 

The last letter

I know I stand alone. That's why I'm still standing. For people destroy, hurt, hate and diminish every piece of you once you let them in. So keep distant. Learn not to trust. Learn to stand strong among these people. Learn to stand still even if on one foot, learn to keep your balance because once they see you shaking they attack... just like in wildlife... Just like the mindless species we keep locked up, they prey on your weakness to feed their own ego and smaller selves.
I'm leaving without any regrets. I'm leaving it today; this life that taught me exactly what to say. I'm leaving it behind and not looking back.
The day after today I will no longer be standing. I will be put in a box and you'll be crying over it. My advice to you is to keep your tears internal, to keep your eyes open and to stand with your feet sunken to the ground where my selfless body lays. I want you to look up to tomorrow, to learn from my mistakes. I want you to know that I left by will.
My dear little one, be strong, be independent and always be still.

The Culpable

Sore throat flushed by graceful whiskey, drunk from the tip of the merciful bottle. He drank consequently. He drank desperately. Smooth candle light reflected through the bottle. No more than a sip left for his emptiness to prey on.

Cracks between the closed curtains in front of him leaked thin rays of light, it seemed as dawn. Depression translated in his surroundings; broken glass on his left, spilled alcohol on his right, the candle in between. He could hear the wind and rain from behind the walls. It has been going on for days now; this never ending storm. His hands trembled as he drank the last drop. The sound of thunder broke his silence. As a thin line of lightening struck earth, as rain dropped rapidly, he broke down. He was sitting on the couch now he's sitting on the ground.  Like a four year old child robbed from his favourite toy, he sobbed. No words could get out of his mouth. 

His hand desperately reached for the table on which laid pictures and papers. He went through them all, threw few on the ground until he found the one he was looking for. He held on to it, as if shadows were pulling it away from him, he pulled back. His fingerprints instilled on its edges, next to her smiling face. In an anger rush, he threw it away. He pushed the table. The candle lost its balance, its flame touched the floor and in a matter of seconds, the room illuminated. He did not get up, he did not run. He sat still looking at the flames going up and down twirling with the smooth  wind. He smelled the burning flesh, yet felt nothing at all. Numb since it has occurred, numb till it's all over. He closed his eyes and rested as hot light took his memories away. 

The shield

Sat down to write, a bunch of stuff in my mind but none I could write on paper. Too much stories a paper wouldn't care to hold, too much pain a paper wouldn't bear to heal, too much weight that might tear it all apart.
But I still sat down. I still tried to write, hoping that maybe, just maybe, this pen would reveal to me my true identity; the person I have now become. I was looking for answers. I was looking for a shield, a one that could protect me from all these thoughts of mine. And after I sat down, I thought about it. I thought about all these problems I've been having; these problems that were causing me to frown. But somehow, I didn't frown. Somehow, ink flooded onto my papers and words started pouring out of my pen. Memories were unleashed into the present and possibly the future. Sad might they be, they still made me smile. Or maybe it was a certain feeling of relief that got to me. And after a while, I got up and walked out leaving the pages I wrote right where I wrote them. I just walked out. Let the generations ahead learn from my mistakes. Let the people walking beside me take a dip in the pile I created. Let the followers that might be expand their boundaries. I left them there, no covers, no hidden truths.
As I passed by the door step, I realized that I might have found my shield. These thoughts of mine, the ones I needed protection from are the ones that saved me. The pen I held on to was my shield.