Amnesia

An existence
Attached to pinprick perforations;
Blunted imprints and scabbed divots
Sealing off memories –
Dark figures roaming stone-walled chambers
Shrouded in the forgotten colors
Of adolescence
Masking itself
In nonchalant shades of grey
Because it’s better this way…
Distanced from the blemishes
Hid beneath long sleeves
And pretty fabrics
Without being fettered
To the ‘why’ they’re there
To touch them
With aloof interest
Without scratching beneath the skin
Of buried trauma
In unintended discovery
Unleashing agonies that bleed
Uglier
Than every macabre hue
It’s better to remember nothing
Except these moments
As cherry blossoms
softly carpet the sunbaked asphalt…

Flummox – Weekend Writing Prompt #247

English was always performative for mother. She especially loved using big words in the most ordinary situations.

“How flummoxing!” 

“Just say confusing…?” 

“And that’s why your teacher says your essays are prosaic,” she sniffed. Inhaling deep, I left her in the kitchen.

I think I should give myself a good pat on the back for trying this one. Setting up the scene was a real head scratcher because of the word limit and the word was actually difficult.

Another great challenge courtesy of SammiCox! Happy Sunday to you all 💐

One Night Stand

As love escapes

The twilit tangles

Sweet dreams unfurl

To shatter on dawn’s

Gilded edge

He turns to find himself

Alone—

Tangled sheets

Sillage of liquor

And sated lust

Stirring hazed recollections

Again

With only stale tastes

Of passion

Stuck to the roof of his mouth

And a distant ebb and flow

Of heated promises

That never breached the shore

Of a fleeting infatuation

When Words aren’t Enough

Sometimes, words aren’t enough. She realizes this in his wan smile before he drains his glass to give her a perfunctory nod, grunting at the bitterness burning down his throat. He says nothing as idle conversations stray by their table and that’s when her words echo back to her. Like soulless drips collecting, rippling out into a void. And there’s nothing else to say because he’s heard it all before. So what do you do when words are all you have to give, even in their superfluity? She calls his name softly and reaches across the table, squeezing his hand.

***

A Lucid Yearning

Voices often ebb and flow, like quietly lapping waves at the shore, in and out of consciousness. They drift on the edge of silence; cosmic undertones strange to an ear that only knows rhythms of the wind. Of things much closer to home – the cadence and sighs of simpler routines. But imagine the world that would ripple into view, eclipsing established borders of thought and self, spreading colors hid within an angel’s mirror, if those voices could be understood?  
Yet they remain – untouched – within the elusive realm of dreams, not so easily coaxed beyond the feathered light where wakefulness awaits.  

Dissonance in the Silence

The silence and I had once been one. We’d shared a mutual understanding and comfort in our moments of uninterrupted dialogue. It had examined the parts of me I was too scared to confront on my own. Had helped me realize there’d never been anything to be afraid of in the first place. During that moment of self-discovery, colored through with a little misery, I’d found a home in the stillness.

But somehow, that changed. It’s all fragmented bits and undone reflections of something I don’t recognize anymore. I keep running from it. The silence makes me uncomfortable. Its presence feels intrusive, though I remember it being gentle; a nurturing brush over my thoughts. Compelling. And I cannot pinpoint when this disconnect started to corrode what I’d come to love.

I chase the silence away at every chance. I crush it. Stamp it out. Drown it in frenetic waves of music, until my head pounds and my ears ache. It’s a monster, waiting in the staves to tear me to shreds as soon as the noise drifts away. I’m frightened by it. All over again. It’s something I cannot understand anymore. And I don’t know why.

The Grim Reaper

The crows have gathered

Wreathing across the grey sky

Swollen with grief 

Before descending the crooked limbs 

Of an old oak;

Bending their heads

In solemn piety 

For the grim reaper

Approaching with the shadows;

Unseen to the natural eye

Hooded cloak draping

Grass blades tipped in crimson

Bearing memory

Of the place where she died;

A wraith roaming the shade

Wild daisies kissing at her feet

But without preamble

His scythe tears apart

Her gossamer soul

And she screams through

An imagined agony

Fighting to keep

The familiar burden 

Of spilled emotions 

Until she realizes

She is finally free…

Restless — Weekend Writing Prompt #206

Restless voices

Echo on the shallows;

Disembodied groans

Uttered

In a wordless desperation

To learn the melodies

Of belonging

We’ve tumbled right along into a new weekend. Another State of emergency is about to be implemented where I live, and I’m starting to wish i could just work from home.

Besides that, I enjoy weekends because I look forward to SammiCox’s writing prompts. This weekend was quite challenging; it’s really hard to write a story/creative piece in only 19 words. For me, at least. I stared at the first two lines of my entry for over an hour before I could piece it into something coherent — I hope.

Please enjoy your Saturday and have an awesome weekend 💕

Drinking Habits

Coffee has become quite symbolic to me over the past year; the picture and fragrance of productivity. The smell permeates almost every office space I’ve entered recently. Even in my workplace, casual glances over my coworkers’ desks reveal proprietary mugs with telling stains. And for the more serious drinkers, there’s a mini coffee pot, either full of stale or fresh coffee, standing to the right of their desk.

There are two close colleagues in particular who share a ritual of placing a mug of hot, fresh coffee on the other’s desk – it all depends on who gets into the office first. I find the gesture quite endearing and it would’ve been nice if I shared that sort of working relationship with a coworker. Arriving at my desk to find warm coffee waiting for me, starting my day with the required caffeine boost. But I’m not really a fan of coffee.

My home country produces some of the best-known coffee and there was a time I loved fixing myself a glass, iced and flavored with Bailey’s (I often got a headache from this, but it was worth it to me then). I’d developed a taste for Nescafe’s French vanilla instant coffee, but the aftertaste was always too sweet. Saccharine. As if my entire throat and stomach had been soaked in sugar. And at that time, the smell of coffee was very nauseating to me.

In spite of how I felt about coffee though, I often frequented the local café by my community college. That’s how the smell grew on me and I’d buy a mochaccino each time I went, until it became my usual drink.

I love the atmosphere inside cafés. It’s like being in a library, without the oppressive edge that you shouldn’t make even a pin drop. The relaxing calm; the soft, occasional whir and hum of machines making drinks; murmured conversation; the scratch of ballpoint pens against paper and the focused rhythm of fingers tapping away at a laptop keyboard. It’s a different sort of freeing harmony that can only be found there. And it was always the perfect place for me to write.

Some of my ideas came from being inside a café and though I don’t visit cafes as much anymore since I migrated, I’ll go on occasion alone or with a coworker. There’s a Starbucks on almost every block. The convenience stores wedged between buildings always let out strong breaths of coffee in the morning when the glass doors slide open. I smell it everywhere I go and it’s always the business folk clutching a paper cup as they scurry the pavement to work.

My new drink of choice is the caramel macchiato – I take it hot since I realized I don’t have to stick to the routine of buying iced beverages. I used to think coffee was the only drink Starbucks served hot without any sort of real variations. Even though I know that now, I still go for the caramel macchiato. Sometimes I’ll try out the seasonal drinks, but as a general rule, I’m the stick-to-what-you-know-and-like type of person.

As for me, when I’m at work, my hot beverage of choice is a good old cup of Lipton with some tea biscuits on hand for dipping.