I. You see, my memories had a way of melting like
chocolate and sticking to my insides like glaze.
II. The way the bully in third grade used to tap her feet
synchronised with my heartbeat then and I still get reminded
of her whenever somebody taps their feet.
III. And see, the thing is, I wear my misfortunes like a garland of bravery,
flashes of late night drives and a million injections, sucking up my blood
for the very reason it was infected. People at school tell me, "You're so
lucky that you're so talented." A girl once looked at my drawings and
said, "And then there's us. Feeding off the earth and giving nothing in
return. Purposeless zombies."
IV. But look, I'm sorry. I've always believed us to have horcuxes all
over the world and I believe in rebirths and I believe in the egg
theory and I believe I have lived for generations now and I believe
that every time I came here, I left back some part of my soul that I
have to redeem now. I believe the reason that I write and draw and
make music is because I have promises to my past and oaths to
my future. Her words stuck to me like permanent glue and I'm
still trying to scrub them off my ribs.
V. Because let me tell you this. The girl I was at five wasn't
the person I was at eleven wasn't the demon I was at thirteen and
isn't the goddess I am now. I invented myself out of heartstrings
and shiny words and maybe I'll do it again tomorrow. Maybe I'll
grow into a new person at sixty and still be proud of it.
VI. I know I am love. I know I am loved. My parents once stayed
up a whole night to save me from a brain eating fever that was
supposed to take my life. Maybe it's just my imagination, but
I remember flashes of that night. That memory had never left me since.
VII. A boy in second grade once let me win a karate match against
him purposely and he was the first friend ever to give me a birthday
present. A girl in tenth grade once replied with my name when I asked
her what happiness was to her.
VIII. These things are what keep me alive. Memories.
// this is too long (sorry) and too personal for my liking //
YOU ARE READING
Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
