love, rose

Sleep is merely a concept, it is 2:27 am. There’s an itch inside of my wrist, and under blurry eyes, the existential dread of being twenty lies like a rock inside me. You’re supposed to achieve so much, and these are the best years of your life. Screaming wasted potential, a dozen prescriptions and red-white-yellow pills. There’s an itch inside of my wrist.

Love is awful and terrible and it is everywhere, love is lying curled up under my tongue, if I can find the words, if I can learn to speak my mother’s words. Stranger in the homeland, home is a dozen different walls and I don’t know why I can’t make anyone stay.

I like to hear the clink of my glass bangles– I got them from a lady sitting with earthen pots and a smile of gutka. Fidget with the ring. Hard wall against my skull and a throbbing ache at my temples. Twenty, I must be so much more. Wasted potential and swallowed more pills. At least anything I’m supposed to be feeling, I don’t. It is like watching everything from the wrong side of a telescope and everything is happening without me in it and it will all pass me by and I will remain a wall flower stuck to my ugly blue walls.

I’m out of things to blame. I’m out of stories to make up for everything I wish I’d done and being twenty is just a time bomb and it will explode and maybe then it will be okay to do nothing and sleep a lot. Read a few books and have an espresso machine. The rules of being alive are irritatingly convoluted, the rules to be “happy” unrealistic. It will be okay and it will be okay in a way I didn’t expect. Maybe I’ve become too good at lying to myself. My black nail polish is fading, and the tube of red lipstick is cracking my lips. White noise and unsent letters and what I’m saying is– next time will it be better, will we be okay.

God, it is ridiculous, this urge to hold life inside my palm. I don’t even like it all that much. Romanticizing the mundane and trying not to blow my brains out, as I beg for structured routine to save me. Mediocrity is a fear I cannot outrun but I fear all my woes are common and human, and all I create is imitation. I have dark brown eyes, black hair. I have coloured it blue and it’s faded to a teal. God, this is life. Laundry and cooking your lunch and burning coffee and writing something pseudo deep on the epiphanies after a couple of lines. Somewhere, there was a love and I think it is very important to remember this: the love was there. The love is still there. It will always be

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