The Moon I Become and other Poems

Chances

I found myself with these four other human beings,
that night, after the school party.
We had fun, sure. Drinking beers and chatting on the side.
But what made it more reluctant was this inner self of mine holding my voice box.

I controlled my breathing.
I controlled my heartbeat as to every pause I created,

as to every wink of my eye got into.

I saw people laughing outside the bar and others were sleeping,

and our place was illuminated by lights and laughters

and nervousness

and self-pity.

I heard their every word plus this rock music
so heavy I should dance with the grasping of air inside my fossil self,

exclusive, alone, celebrating

And this inner self still meeting my eyes as to whatever direction I got hold off.

As if he wanted to say something,
that he wanted to let me feel that this had happened a long time ago,
that in between the words they were talking and the liquid thing we were pouring, there was a message only we could decode.

My inner self was correct

He condemned me for being pretentious

He let me realized that I was listening to all night -

that I had the chance to speak up but my tongue evidently rehearsed different dance steps:

a combination of Salsa and some tribal steps,

no one had an idea where this f* came from.

I checked for oxygen but my inner self only shouted for my chance.

A chance that I never had when I was growing up,
when I was raped by this greedy culture,
when no one seemed to understand,
when this society has been formed along with these norms and the benchmarks of living,
when there were words before the creation of the universe.
My body emerged bashfully and wanted not to be seen until these molecules were combined with the air.

I wanted to sip the beer on my glass so fast
and to stand firm
but my mouth has been slain with this gigantic silhouette of my past that was not recovered
and will no longer be found.
I was still alive, and my inner self was now crying.

We went deeper
Our discussions were too
But as we got into decoding our stories, my inner self was stabbing me on my back,
on every tiny hole, this air could go through.
I did not listen to him
I found myself drowning with my own blood.

I cried for help but I only saw was my pretentious face eating my own comfort,
enjoying the bliss of this temporary pleasure,
of this company who never tried to, at least, ask how was I doing.
Should I demand that or should I get that chance in the very beginning, instead?
I killed myself that night

I killed that chance of somehow being a survivor.

We got into a cab and went home.
I was collecting the dead pieces of me and like a child,
my inner self was silently gazing at those light posts we were getting through
Along the way, until I fell asleep.