white voids/ please come back

I got my eyes tested and a pang shot up in my temples. I remember them annihilating my eyes with a sci-fi red laser leaking from a robot that moved with a sound. For a moment, everything disappears into that brightness, and I wonder if this is rehearsal. In these times I am almost floating, watching my own life through the wrong side of a telescope. Yet again another dilation and a pang shoots up under my eyes. I’d rather stay blind for the rest of my life like Milton. Who knows I might write something like Paradise Lost. After the doctor shook his head in disappointment over why I didn’t come way earlier, I closed my eyes shut and sat back on the scooter with my father. He’s riding with his hands settled into the handle gear so I don’t have to worry at all. I sniff the air that slaps itself across my face. I can taste the pink sky on my tongue. You aren’t really supposed to feel it that way, colours are a sight perceived by eyes. The sky looked really pretty that day, I know because I opened my eyes when I shouldn’t have. I am not real. This has happened before. In a very strange manner, I’ve laid my eyes bare before. I feel everything wrongly, like my senses have forgotten which function is theirs. Is there a right way to feel?

Diwali went by and I didn’t dress up. In fact, none of us did. I don’t doll up for festivals anymore and I don’t even remember the last time I did. Memories are a badly shot film blurring out all the black. Must’ve been around the early 2010s when we celebrated in our verandah with my grandparents and my mum dressed me up in rhinestone gowns or jeans with a sparkly top and my hair bedazzled with tiny clips. It’s scary how I could’ve made so many memories in the times after that but chose not to.Or maybe I did, and I cannot tell you which ones are real, and if mirages mirror real, where is the line and how clear is it. I feel diwali in my body. There is a firecracker shoved inside my throat. There is crippling noise and then there are burning sensations from the smoke. I see molten wax resting on the cold October tiles and I cradle my fingers deep inside it. Sometimes the too-muchness of it all is what roots my feet on the ground and my eyes up in the sky. It’s white like hares hopping around in the dark with a target over their frail bodies. Red of the target, red of the blood. I caress the molten wax in my dreams and make dolls out of candles. I will decorate my desk with candled dolls at dusk with my burnt palms.

Winters ‘25, I’m like the human equivalent of a dead mall, a mall that has lost its spark. What is spark if not an affirmation? What is spark if not a blinding light? What is spark if not a target aimed at the head of a white hare? The sign lights still blink as if waiting and welcoming. Neon glimmers with a kind of hopeless insistence. The escalators yawn open like steel jaws, hungry for feet that no longer come. Like a golden kitten sitting on a book shelf with one arm waving, calling you aboard. I think of fish with their mouths agape, their scales dull under the bizarre fluorescent light. Do they ever wonder if the ocean is the same, or is the home simply a loop in dirty water.The floor in my mall is Sylvia’s floor. The floor seems familiar and finite. There’s a new movie in the theatres this weekend. You’re free and your friends are in town but you won’t go to the mall anymore. You won’t address the dead anymore. You won’t pine once again. Gladly you’re not sitting here at this wormhole. The path is moving forward and you are supposed to too, but your feet are still dragging. The stones press into your soles and your kneecaps crack. You cannot keep up with your life, it is a graph curving beyond itself.

I’ve seen fishes fly in my mall but they don’t go to places I’ve been. I’ve soared high enough to feel the weights pull me down and I’ve fallen on my face like a boy who had wings made of wax—molten wax. Sinful murmurs of who was he? It does not matter what I’m about to write. You’ll catch me collecting up my soul and bits I’ve shed long ago. I must dig the buried and kiss their corpse back to life, I’ve left them a little too many parts of me. The flesh between my fingers stings and burns at the thought of strangling my body in the mirror.The mirror is false, all it shows me is someone I cannot recognize. Or is it because I feel the lack of a hand intertwined with mine? I don’t know. I’ve never known. It’s as if I’ve never known a single thing in my 19 years of life.

I heard your voice again after what felt like ages. I remember the songs you used to sing for me after school. Music was my thing, sports boy; why would you ever take that away from me? I remember your self-deprecating humour and how ugly you looked with a frown. Your hand over my thigh sliding inside haunts me today. And so it has ever since it happened in that english class in October. I remember you calling me what you called someone else before, what you call someone else now. I love her and her, and all of your girls. But I don’t love you. I wish I wouldn’t think of you either but my memories, however grainy, are etched. I do not get to choose which I get to keep. You are there lurking, against my will. But I don’t love you.

There is a scent that broke out in my house like an epidemic. The scent of you. The scent of being. I broke the bottle, it slid off right across to one corner of the living room. Shattering glass and the scent stayed still in mid air— suspended. I have cleaned the floor dry and the walls I’ve scratched. I haven’t been able to get rid of the scent. And now I smell like that when I go outside. It makes its presence known the strongest in that corner. The corner I won’t sit in again. It’s polluting, intoxicating, and hazy suffocation. That corner of my house is tainted, beaten down by nevermores and sealed shut by me. Revisits are strictly prohibited. Those places exist only in a space-continuum that can never be that again. Like every summer that passes is never the summer all those summers away. It simply is, something unquantifiable.

I am crying over you again. Losing my religion over you again.God is an abstract concept and they watch me worship you. I see things now. I thought I saw you taking a turn on the road while I was walking aimlessly. On a road that’s mine, all that’s ever been mine— a public road. I thought I saw the back of your head in a cleaner haircut— the neck I’ve never caressed, the neck I’d rather choke. I’m not fooling anyone. The neck I’d rather throw my arms around— hugging you for the first and final time, once, once again. But here I am, crying to love songs. I miss someone I no longer want. It feels like snakes slither on my back when I listen to songs you took away from me. When does one ever get out of mazes and escape rooms? When does one truly move on? Will I always be stuck here with this shooting pain between my collapsing lungs?

I wake up in a fazed state and bite my tongue to shake it off of me. My nose is blocked and I see a little blurry like I’m somewhere i shouldn’t be, somewhere i don’t recognise like the back of my hand. Brush that feeling out my teeth and then stare at the five holes in the sink. Five dreadful holes with no end that look like a flower I’d make if I was still seven. I move my eyes to the dirty mirror with bindis pasted on it. All that woman in me craves liberation. The hem of my salwar rolls up over my ankles— my kohl smeared eyes want to doze off again. I want to remain a woman without having to become.I am a story before I am a woman and I am a woman because I am a story. Women are abstract concepts first, and I feel there is no definition over the lines. I’ll peel my dry flesh off if that’ll make me weigh less. I gained a kilo this morning on the weight machine. I sit up, choke on a glass of water, and force my legs out the door this time.

I don’t take the car these days. Last time I sat inside waiting for the light to turn an ugly green whilst a little boy with his tummy bulging out and wobbly frail looking legs and knees too boney wiped my windshield clean with a dirty stuffed lamb. This lamb must’ve been a discarded toy still holding onto the cotton like it’s biting it as hard as it could with milk teeth. White and soft and plump. Lamb to the slaughter. It is not the white from my bloody hares. White bleeds a different colour now. Of moss. Of algae. Of grease. Of grey matter.

I step outside my shabby four walls and suddenly I’m looking for things that could kill me. Food poisoning from a street-side citric juice possibly made from dirty water. Or falling face down on the escalators and losing all my front teeth. Sticking my hand in an elevator and dying like a blunt chainsaw is cutting my limb off. I’m in a rickshaw right now, and unknowingly thinking of ways this little commute could overturn. A rickshaw tests the best of us. I bet my chances. They look bleak. Death be kinder to me. I have a romanticised image of Death, like it would cradle the chaos inside and the loudness, ringing, the overlapping crashes against each other would quiet and I will know peace. I will know peace as I know death.

Anyways I’m still in that rickshaw. I am looking at things around me from the lens my tears make for me. I wasted my energy and lost my tears to the wind today. I passed by this house from my younger days. I used to have a best friend who lived here. Peach house with wooden frames. Today I saw a new nameplate on her house. The air smells heavy and the look of it sells dreams. I miss. I miss. I miss. I miss, and I forget to live.

I close my ears and I can hear something still. Beating. Throbbing. My temples pulsating because of a bad headache? No, my heart, the walls of my heart are contracting and wildly whispering. I’m high on coffee. An image is drawn before my eyelids— tightly shut and teeth clenched. I am little again. I sat snuggled in a corner on the balcony while my parents drank their brains away in different places— my mum getting wasted in the kitchen and my father with his friend in a car upstate. I wish I could go back and feel a little less tormented by something that wasn’t supposed to feel like it was ever in my control. Back there as a little wise girl so I could hold my brother in wide arms and love him like I should’ve. And at the end of the tunnel if I don’t become someone I want to know, I’ll always be an elder sister. Who am I when I am not a daughter, a sister, a friend, a lover. Who am I without my love tangling up hearts around me.

College has been going on for a month now. Someone repeats my name, laughs too loudly. I hide behind my glasses, behind the safe weight of unthreatening individuality. Writing for the magazine almost saves me—until it doesn’t. I’m holding my breath. If I breathe too loud I might wake up from this dream.There is a wrong way to breathe, a wrong way to exhale-inhale. The oxygen is not fully where it should be. Or worse, it might make me hate that I ever wanted it in the first place—to turn your back on your dreams not because you grew out of it but because you loathe it now. Tragic.

I need something to keep me alive, something to constantly drive me. Take the steering wheel. So I wrote to this uni magazine. Jittery fingers and lips pursed, I sent my worst photograph to go with it too. They’re publishing my work sometime during this month. I’ve taken that piece with me to people now, making them read it like it is literature. I watch their jaws drop and eyes enlarge. Normally, you don’t expect a person like me to write. Or do you? Only a person like me could write. I store feedback in the space between my eyes, behind my hardened skull. I roll my eyes to compliments. And roll my eyes even more if you’re going to tell me how I could’ve made a personal piece better. I love writing, that’s all I’ll say.

I wear out everything I love. Faded jackets, empty refills, and dog-tired people. I carry corpses over my shoulders. Corpses of fireflies and red ants. There is sugar dripping along my back bone. Cotton candy residue. Anyways, I’ve started to keep a diary. I write more often now. I’ve realised however convenient a digital archive may be I will still be drawn to physical pages. Physical reminders of what I’m capable of. Physical pats on the back instead of texts which I reread all the time. I’ve deleted all the chats afterall. I don’t have proofs left with me anymore. It feels chic enough to have another door closed shut and another closet sealed off. I’m a never ending techno song. Ghost of all the summers combined.

I romanticize my potential until it’s something worth spitting at, crippled up like a burnt paper within my weary palms. I am not as fluent as you or as diligent as you or as rewarding as you, and I lose my crap over this every single day when I see you thriving. When I see you doing all these things I might as well be doing instead of you or with you. It feels like holding onto sand and twisting my fist too hard that it starts bleeding. At least that you cannot be better at. My finesse in sabotage, my pain and its familiarity. There are sand particles which look like little stars, they’re dead bodies of the sea life, they poke my skin and acupuncture it. I am making constellations on the ocean and I’m so petty it enrages me. I am so horrible it is pathetic. I’m apathetic and I lose my breath over little things that remind me I’ll never be good enough for anyone. I want part time affection. I want part time responsibilities. I want part time ties with good people, people who love me, adore me, want me, need me. I want to break free each time I have something I want. I want to run away when I’m loved. I want this and this and this and this and then i stomp on all my chances because it’s suffocating to feel like I’m getting better yet again because getting better doesn’t comfort me, all it does is show me all the damn times I almost got better and then fell back into a bottomless pit. The pit feels like a void in my chest. Throbbing white void.The white I see in the wall of my room and on the rotting ceiling from which God is watching me. I am happy when I’m not. I’m not when I’m supposed to be. The pipe in my throat collapses and the walls crumble down because I’m too disgusted to admit out loud that I’m not happy where I should be, not when all the stars align, that I’m unable to feel happiness when I should be drenched with utmost joy. And what is happiness anyways, I repeat and choke on my words as I’m being dragged away from the rooms I don’t deserve to be in. What is happiness? I don’t know.

t̴̡̠̜̲͈͖̟̣ͫͥ̽͋͋ͤ͡͝_̱͛h̷̶̡̩̪̼͙̲͙̭̰̻͉͖͌̈̉͋̽̂̆ͤͮ́̉ͤ̄͋͡͠e̶̻͚͕̩͎̺ͫ̃̽͢ w̸̡̮͈̫̏́ͮ̃ͮ̌̓͜͠ͅh̸̨̧̧̛̛̻͙̯͙̩̗͎̮͈̤̣̼͛́̽̌ͦͬ͒ͥ̒̉̏́ͪ̏̋́̉̚͞ͅį̨̭̺̥̝́̅̄͂̾̓̾ͥͩ̊ͭ͂̕͢͝͡͞͞t̢ͥḛ̴̜̱͇̪̝͈͎ͬͬ̏̿̉͜͟͡ r_̷̘͉̤̰̠̼̣̝͙ͣ̈́͑ͯ̇̋̃̓͛͢͠͞͞o̶̢͚͚̖̬̖̟͎͍͖̺̩̖͍̍̔̓̎̈͗̍̎͆̉͂̉͜͟͟om̢̛͇̆ͧ̌͐͟_̧̛̱̺̞̠̲̭͚͓̱̗̤̼̆͊ͮ̏͑ͪ̋́ͭ̒̍͌ͥ̕͘͢͟ w̴̶̢̡̥͈̠̝̙̯̥̼͍͙͓̫̪̼̲̱̎̀̈́ͬ̐ͦ͂͒ͦͥ͗̋ͭ̓ͤ͑ͯ͛͛͐͗͢͟ͅͅi̧̙̗̼̥͊͋͗ͩ͟͞l̶̶̬̞̖̬̯͙̝͍̻͍͖̣̮̘̾ͭ͌͗ͦ̎̍̅ͬͫ͑̿̏̑͘̚͡͡l_̶̧͕͕̃̆̿́̏ ķ̢̬̳̘͙̙̙͍͛́͒̂͗̑̒̆̚͘ͅͅi͍͉̦̳̎̐̒̿̊̎ͬ͡͡ll̸̶̴̴͕̣̘̦̱̃̀̅͛ͤ͂̈́ͨ̅ͬ̉ͬ̚͜͜͠_͇͓͙̳̯͌͗͒ͣͣ̔̓̃ͯ́͞ y̡̛̟̦̳̞͙͔̖͔͔͙ͩͣͬ͌ͩ͑͜ͅo̡̡͓̮̲̹̰̫̯͇͒̆́͛̂̌̓ͪ̀͛̈̆̆ͬͭ͒ͭ̇ͩ̃ͯͯ̕̕͡͞ứ̗̗ͥ̑̀̂͐͐̓̓ͣ̅ͥ̄͘̕͢͝͠ t̶̡͍̘̼̤̥̟̬͆ͭ̃ͦ̾̾ͧͥ͛̉̄͘̚͢h͚̗͉̟͉̬̺̉̋̅̄̏ͦ͌_̱̳̜̼͗ͧ͐̍͂͞ė w̸̷̴̧̥̩͈̳̜͕͕̥̠̪̩͕͍͎̏͊̓̉͆̃̄̋ͬ̏̈́͆͊̓ͩ̀́̋͒ͪ̆ͭ̃̕̚͘͘͡h̸̸̢̧̨̗̗̼̘̜͚͈̬̦̥̪̥͖͇ͪ̍̅̋̊ͬ̃͌ͨ̈͆͐̐͛̓̋͞i̢͔̊ͪ̔͒̀ͤ͠_̵̴̡̰̭̳̞̯̫̗͉͚͕̮̰͗̀̏͗̌̓͛̃ͧͩ̚͢͢t̷̯̱͙̼̻̫ͣͧͨ̄ͫ͐ͣ̑̂͆̂͋͢͜ͅe̴̸̴̡̩̫͇̰̰̖͖̖̥͓̩̲ͦͫͥͪ̽ͪ̈̋̈́ͣͥͬͪ̍ͥ͡͝͞_̵̴̢͙̙̾̎̇ͥ̚͟ ṟ͇̼ͮ͂̓͋̎ͤ̌̍͞ờ̴̵̛̘̳̘͔̩̀̄ͩ͗̽ͥͯ̔̋ͦ̕͡͞om̧̙̻͈̝͓̰̤ͫ́́̄͐̆ͨ̇̈́͊͡ w̷̷̷̸̧̛̛͖̳̤̰̹̺͙̹̹͎̟̗̍̄̂ͫ͊̉ͨ̂͡͞i̩̯̳ͥ͐̂̏̏ͣ́̊͟_̶̷̡̨͕̻̪̗͕̥̘̖͆ͧͨ͋ͬ̃ͦ̆̏̑̄͌͂̆̚l̴̴̸̡̛̜̘̪̭̗͖̲̝͕̗͍̯̖̯͔̺͖͂ͬͧͩͭͯ̽ͥ̀̏ͯͫ̏ͭ͋ͦ̐̽̑ͩ̕͢͝l̴̴̵͎̰̬̘͈͙͔̤̝̖͉͉̙̟͎ͣ̌͗͒̇͋̒ͭ͂ͣ̇̃ͫͦ̿̉̂͐͂ͬͦͫͥ́͠͝͠ m̴̡̙̰̋ͬ̑̌̇ǫ̵̟̩͍̼͋ͬ̀ͣ̿ͧ̿ͩ͟_̷̝͓̝̗̩̜͍ͯ̽̂̀ͣ͋ͧ̾̓͊͑̋͘͜c̷̷̢̡̛͉̣̲̰͇̞͍̳̠̥̝̺̦̉̀̀́̉ͩ̈̀ͥ́ͮ͆̆͛̀̊̑̍̈͊̕͟͠͝͝ͅk̵̻͊̈̌̇ͤ͢_̵̤̙̺͇̗̠̭̻̟ͦ͒ y̶̸̵̢̧̗̭͖͕̫̙̣̞̻͕̦ͯͦ̀̈̓͆ͪ́ͤ͒̓̈́̕͜o̸̪͈̓_̸̷̰͍̤̝̤̹͉̝̋̋̎̂̈̾͊̏ͯ̾ͪ̊̉͞ų̷̴̠̤̱̝̤̪͔̫̠͈̣̙̪͍̹̙̩͖͇͖ͨ͐ͯͣͧ̉͊̓ͮ̏͐̎̀̂̌̆̀̾͘͡ ţ̶̷̡͕͇͔̖ͬ͐̕͠ḩ̶͕̘̼̳̗͓͉ͨ̄̄̇͊ͩ͊̈̎ͨͧ́̋̂̈́̑̍́̕͘͟͜͝͡͝͠ě̸̬̙̬͗̌̄̆͛̚͘͟ͅ_̱̙̩̜̭͎̙̥̤̭ͦͨ̔́̏̀̀̒̾͛̂͢͡͠ ẃ͍̼ͦͫͣ͢_̺̓̌h̸͚̦̖̻́͊͌̿̈́̀͜͡į̢̬̗͈̯̠͇̱̮̲͉̅ͫ̂ͪ̔ͫ̔̑́͒̂̍ͬ̑ͦ̂̕͜͠͞͝t̶͉͓̪͎̻̞̪͇͙ͫ̌ͦ̇̅ͣ̂͂͢ę̸̨̬̲͖̝͈̩̗̮̦̦̜͔͉̙͉̻̘͙̺̈̈́́̈́̽́͌ͦ͂̎ͮ̂́̅̃͋̀̅̑̌̊͟͡ g̶̶̴̸̸̢̧͙̖̯̭͓̫̣̜̜̹̘̣͚̬̾̂̀ͬͩ̄ͣ̉ͨ̃̎͒́ͧ̄̑̐̽̌̃̕͢o̫͕̳̟̯͇̓͂͐͛̅̏́ͥ̋̑͒͒t̗͙̣̫͛̃ t͟ḩ̫e̺̓̆͂̂̕͟͡_̨̛̥͎̲͓̘ͥ̾̿̀ͫ̉ͩ̕̚̚͜͝͡͡͡ b̷̧̘̭̩͕ͫ͊͌͂̅̌ͤ̃̃ͩ̈̏͌́̕e̗̹̺ͦ̎́ͦ͊͗͊͜͢͢͞_̵͙̹͇̭̮̜̇̀̽ͬͫͩş̴̷̷̛̩̰̫̣̲̙͔̹̰̳̟̪̝̰͇ͮ̿͛͒ͩ͊͗́́ͫ̃̌̌̇̆ͣ͆̓̚̚͜͞t̴̪̖̤̫̘̠͕ͧ̏̈ͤ͋ͮ̍͡͞ ǫ̸̷̤͇̳͔͇̥̲̩͉̠̈́̽̑̄̃̍̉̀͋ͫͧ̐͒͛̒̄́͐̿͒ͤ̃̕͘͜͢͟͞͡f̧̠ͤ͆ͧͅ ų̷̸̛̫̞̮̝̖̝͙̞̬̻̬͙͖͐̊̋ͬ̔͌̄͒ͭ̒̓͌̽ͧ͊̓̅͆͛̕͢ͅs̢̧͉̩̊ͤ͟ ţ̴̧̗̭̠̗͖͂̊ͩͭͣͨ͐̿͒̀̉̈́̚h̵̴̢̥̲̖̩͚̱̰̥̝̱̝̞̤̤̤͍̜ͮ̌ͬ̂ͯ͆͌ͥ̃ͭͮ̀͊̋ͬ͆̑ͨͨ͘͟͢͝e͙̟̠̬͍͙͉͑͌ͯ͆͛ͪͩ̔͒ͥͮ͜͞_̸̺̦̦̬͉̈̿̈͞ w̵̶̨̹̖̩̲̘̮̲͍̭͚̲̬͔̜͊̍̈̈̅̓̀̇̔ͤ̓̋̓̓̄̒ͣ̔͛̄̊͌̚͡h_̵̶̸̴̯̘͕̝͖̺̠̼́ͪ̂̐̂̓ͯ͜_͈̦̄i̴̵̧͍̱̥̬̰̰̦̘̲̯͉͓͆̔̈́̂̇ͩ̉̽̀ͧ͊̃̽̈́ͥ͊ͩ̃̑̑̇̋̊̎͘̚ṭͦ́͐̍́͂_̴̵̡̲͆ͩ̇ͨ͋͠e̼̽͑͘_̵̴̧͚̜͕͙͈̱͇̙̱͓͕͍́̀ͨ̀́̊̈͆̆̓͊̐͋̊ͦ̚͢͜͞͞ r̵̡̧͍̭̼̱͎̗̤͎̹̹͍̫̣̳̻ͯ̑ͭͩ̑ͩ̋̑ͧ͛́́ͥ́ͤͣ̉̀̕̕͢͡͡͡ͅo͟o͡m̡̺̖͎͙͚̣ͬ̈́͆́͗̏̊̊͂́̑͋͠͝ ẉ̴̟̗̩͍͔̹͎͈ͧͧ̎̔̒ͪͦͩ̏ͧͫ͐ͭ̋̾͗ͩ̓ͥ͘͜ͅi̸̶͓͍͔̖̱̟̰̞ͬͥ̅ͩ͒̓́ͩ̚͟͠_̷̶̧̛̘͈̻̱̜̹̣̯̞͉̙͈ͨͨ̀̽ͬ̄̐̕͝ļ̡̤̺̳̲̞̖͎͓̻̳̞̹̎̒͐́̇̓̉͊ͧ͘͟l̝͔̅̉̽̋ͫ̅̆ kį̵̢̡̦̳͎̘͉͙̠̞̪͔̣͗̐̐͑ͫ͑̅ͥ̽̔͆̀ͣ̇͆̌̿̍͂́̀̃͑͑̕͜͝͝ͅļ̷̼̙̗̟̦̫͉̫̦̪̥̃͛̂̑̿̋̀͗ͬͨ̒͑̄̓ͪͧ̈́͘̕̚͜͢͞͡l͕̼̜̥̳̟͇͚̽̒̏ͤ̏ͥ͛ͦͣ͂ y̴̨̮̲̥͉͈͖͔̓ͣ͗̀ͯ̋͢o̴͓͕̘̻͔ͪ̋ͮ̅̌͞͞ų̷̷̵̨̛̛̫̜̝̩̰͔̦͓̮̱̦̄ͦͩ̎̆ͦ̅̂ͬ̀͋͒͐ͦ̓͑̿̓̔ͥͬ̆̅ͦ

It is the white that is the black behind my eyelids. I can feel the phantom weight of my limbs. Or limbs, tangled and rickety, bones and muscle and flesh. Do you hear your heart pump blood into your glass-mouth? Do you hear the colours of these four fucking walls and when you look up it is white and there is God and he is sadistic. You can weep. You can colour all of it red, and you can empty all your aortas and veins and turn yourself inside out and still the white will gleam, angels falling into the drip of sick scarlet blood. They tried to bring you to salvation, they picked up your wrongly stitched up body, but whoever heard of a risen demon? You are talking to the cracks of a peeling wallpaper, blinding light on the back of your face and the sounds of its decay ringing loudly and in this entire universe your speck of existence feels all of it boundlessly and can a mind hold it without cracking. All there is infinity in a room you cannot even call your own.

Your mind is leaking memories, it is all taking place somewhere far away and the person that is happening to is supposed to be you. It looks like you, it is your hands your eyes are looking at. The scars, the throb of pain pulsating where you tore your skin open but these are not your hands this is not the eye you look from. You have a feeling you are supposed to feel it slash through, you have a feeling you are looking down from yourself to you and again up at your ceiling from where God watches– the crack of marble under the feet that is supposed to be yours, the syllables that should form a prayer to Something Above, that Something Big supposedly cracking open on your open palm– the fact is red on white, white on red, everything is a kaleidoscope. Your mind is leaking memories, in the way you watch from an old cassette that has cracks along its lens. Flashes of sound and colour some through, there is texture you want to feel. You can touch your hand and your head and your pain is happening to you but also you are watching it happen. Real, not real, all of it is a blurred boundary stained with yourself. Time is passing, space warps around the white you are in– you crawl and you scream, but to scream you must have a mouth and the mouth is not your mouth but you can hear something emerge from it, you see the sound wisp away. A vacuum cannot hold sound. A vacuum only holds light and light is white and you are the prism so it passes through you and you are watching it splinter and you are aware that the space you feel is an infinity and you are in a space that is bound only by time. You are lying in your own filth you are coughing up your made misery you are crying salted tears you are holding a knife you drove you are the self you cannot bear. You are the self you cannot bear, so you are watching yourself. From somewhere, from the disturbing feel of cold marble in your bent spine. You are hearing colours, you are tasting sounds, you are looking at time. White rings, high-pitched and a trapped angel, salvation long forgotten. Wings are white. Dreams decay. Your tongue has forgotten every word. You are feeling everything so you are feeling nothing. What you mean is you are feeling the things happening to you in a sense they aren’t happening to you at all. You are a woman trapped in the wallpaper, you are a soul stitched into the fabric of this universe but the universe is you. You are something you cannot quantify, you are a voice you are. You are. Happiness is exploding in your fragile chest and it collides with grief, and both are the same damn shade. The yellow is sickly sweet in your mouth and the blue soothing your red bloody bruises. A paradoxical contradiction, the statement being false, because how can joy feel so heavy, how does it splinter at your seams? You are made up of memories, and you cannot tell which is real. Are you real, when the memories are still leaking from your skull, where it is distorted by the lens you are looking at your own life with. Are you real, are you made of anything solid, are you spilling blood and scratching bones to feel– the warm liquid, the solid mass. Does that displace you back, where you are supposed to belong?

Belonging– but you have spent your entire life a wallflower a ghost an entity passing through. Belonging– but have you been held without hurt, have you ever been tender. Belonging– who is there to call your own, who is there who calls you theirs?. No, you have spent life drifting. You have not even lived to call it your life, because a life must be lived. The tangles of the complexities of a life are lying brittle torn unconnected what do you have to show for your existence.

I am you and you are me, can you hear yourself, can you hear me, can I hear myself? I am lying shaking and everything is shallow, my throat drying, my eyes prickle. I am rotting,I am a pile of flesh a bag of bones mass of flesh. I can feel my spine hard against marble. I am struck by the scale of the space I am in. How can so much be inside so little, how can a heart hold so much. The relativeness of everything to everything is a fallacy that is making my head hurt more. I am trying to wipe the blood and the white lines on my skin are the same as the tiles on the floor and they have lines of black breaking. I am holding my hands, my face, my hair, my body. Myself, in this room. Four walls. The floor is cold, the clothes on me hang all wrong.

The skin on my feet stings like bees have housed beneath them. The veins in my wrists pulsate and throb. I can hear my heart beat in my temples. The voice in my ear is a sharp needle dropping inside a magic hat. My eyelids twitch at the sight of the clean white. It’s white with no ceiling to look up to, no floor to fall back on, no boundaries to trace, no walls to beat my head to. I’d break my skull to get out. I’d slither with my fingers clawing to crawl out from the creaks. I’d soar to break the ceiling and sink to melt the floor. White room. No sleep. No sleep at all. Death. Or no death at all. Undead for the rest of my pitiful life.

I kiss the ground clean. I sink my nails inside the white marble. The white marble is cruel. It has ribs, I can feel them if I sink my touch a little further. Ribs covered in a thin sheet of flesh and muscle. White flesh. White bones. No blood. I stand up with my feet on nothing. I don’t see a single thing or is it that I see absolutely everything? I swing my body towards each corner of the never-ending room. My room must’ve had sharp corners and greasy tiles from all the sweat. I can’t seem to find it. I can’t seem to find my way out.

White follows me through everything. Like a damned bride at the altar. Like a moth before it burns. Like hares hopping around in a field of long grass. Like teeth hanging around in a necklace like pearls. Like a pair of dead swans with their necks snuggled together. Like the bottom of a bathtub. Like foam at the bank of a river. Like a crippled page. Like dust.

NOTE: The wonderful and talented 𐙚⋆.˚Arunima˖⁠♡ has co-authored this with me. Check out her work, she’s an insanely good writer. If you read this fully, considering supporting us by buy us a coffee.