This ceiling always gets stared at whenever I don't want to feel how I'm feeling, but I can't help it. The anger keeps growing with more reasons for me to fuel it. Tragic. My eyes keep getting blurrier the more I give that thought the attention it craves. Stabbing my mother in the chest, so she feels how I feel.
How I've always felt.
This was never my choice. She named me Collins, after her brother. And my father never talks about how he wasn't given a chance to suggest a name for me. His motherin-law was quite greedy with things that aren't meant to be a cause of conflict. Basically, the concept of my life. But at least his surname is a compulsory name I guess, Walters.
I just wanted to help her cook dinner. I wanted to build a connection I felt was getting weaker by the second, the more we counted the years till my high school graduation, the more I felt like my parents were itching for me to leave. But I fucked up. I forgot to take the chicken out of the oven, due to my extraordinary ability to drift into a conversation with Mary Fletcher, a being I cannot define with logic.
'Can I ever catch a damn break!' My mum screamed while fanning the smoke away from the charred chicken.
'Sorry mum, I forgot to take the chicken out...'
'You always, always, always raise my damn BP. Give me a damn break! And I knew I shouldn't have let you prepare the chicken.' Her head in her palm.
I could see her vein pop out from the side of her forehead. I was scared and sad, the best word to describe it is numb.
'Ayt, Imma head out then.' I replied.
'Stay out!' Pointing at me as I walked away.
'I'm 16!' As I charged to my room.
'Act like it!' She replied right before I closed the door.
Moving up and down the damn room. I was fuming. My eyes got blurrier and blurrier each time I changed my direction, tearing up with pain. I put on my headphones to listen to soothing music. I gained back some of my sanity. And with it, I chose to write a poem. To let go of those intense emotions. To forget about the harm, I wanted to inflict onto my own mother. To kill the guilt. To avoid talking to her...
Mary Fletcher.
'What are writing about today?' She was listening all along. Mary. 'I don't want to talk.' I replied.
'Is it your mum again?' 'Yes...I don't want to think about hurting her again.' Guilty.
'Then forget about it. Easy as that.' She had become very nonchalant.
Having a simple solution to a tragic complexity. That was very provocative.
'Not till I write about it. I must air it out somewhere. This shit's been silent for so long, I feel so fucked up...' TikTok edits on self-development. They helped me more than one would think.
"A VIEW FROM THE MOON.
Be the change you want to see.
I know it doesn't make sense.
Since the change I seek is already within me.
Who knows if its for the better anyway?
Coz this individual, individuality, we seem to value it.
I see the steady decline in our own quality.
Sus.
I'm caring about a world that doesn't give a fuck about the state of my mentality. Desperately.
I'm desperate in excess.
And who knows if it's for the better anyway?
Coz only beings working at the same resonance understand the purpose of their resistance.
But birds of the same feather don't always flock together.
Does that make any of your sense?
Or is this the same old song that you're trying to forget?
Running in the back of your head.
It's getting louder than your own conscience.
You're starting to regret. Maybe, if only maybe.
I could learn to read between the lines, right?
Know when I've caught a cold before I get caught by a cold, right?
Shut the fuck up when I let my pride be the one I choose to ride, right? Am I right?
But who knows if it's for the better anyway?
Because every soul knows how it feels to go astray.
In this world where no one gives a fuck about what you give a fuck about.''
Heartfelt. Painful. And honest. Does honesty justify itself as being the truth, besides being our own truth?
'You keep getting better at describing your pain...I don't see how this helps you heal if I'm being honest.' Mary had the best feedback to my most vulnerable moments. Life motivating.
'I feel-good right now. I feel like I can go about my life for a little longer before the feeling comes back to haunt me.' I replied.
'What feeling?' I always see her staring at me whenever she asks such a direct question. Intimidating.
'I don't know, the feeling like I don't deserve to be...alive'
'How does writing about the feeling make you feel like you deserve to live all of a sudden?' What was she on about?
'It satisfies my urge to love and gain a form of emotional wisdom, though I know it is not permanent due to something I've been failing to even recognize. So, I end up giving all my energy into the words I use to emulate the rage or sorrow, rarely do they emulate joy...Leaving me unsatisfied ultimately. An urge to live to quench this thirst.' I couldn't even fathom.
I was sitting on the study table at the corner of my room while all of this was going on. Listening to my playlist filled with movie scores and TikTok edit background music. As a true imaginator.
'You're destined for better. More than what the world throws at you, don't you agree?' She asked. Mary Fletcher.
'I agree.' I replied. 'Then get the bottle of booze under your bed and climb that damn roof, take a few sips to the music of your soul before the Malibu sun sets. Poised to rise again at dawn.' She smiled while being a few inches away from my face.
I climbed that roof and did as she said, under my own accord of course, right?
I thought to myself.
'I know that her face is a construct in my head, but I don't construct her presence or feel. That is what I've in search of. Like bringing Cortana to the world of the flesh and cruelty of the soul. How she longed to be held by the one person who's always had a hold on her.' That's the last thought I recall I had.
Waking up in my bed with a headache the size of Texas. I started to drown in regret. That's when Mary isn't around. All I have left is...me.
Who would believe me if I told them about her?
THE END.
