Category: Real Life

NOT FOR THE YOUNG; NEVER.

I can’t write any articles on loss and grief because I am not old enough yet. There are teenagers who post on their Facebook walls sadness in a status and teenagers who decorate their Instagram feeds with black and white, vignette, varying hues of gray and darkness and teenagers who slit their throats in 140 characters; the short sentences are extremely sharp and hurt their readers as well, prompting a Retweet. I can’t complain that I am sad and tired and that I feel, wondrously, miraculously, that I have given up, because what right do I have, I am only a teen and I am not an adult who has lost her sheen which the harsh adult world took from her like a blanket stolen off a baby in a cradle. I watch as my friends meet half an hour earlier in front of the school gates, to talk about things that they’ll be told off for talking about at home. I watch as my friends get asked why their pocket money is depleting so quickly, why there’s messages telling them not to die in a ditch, things’ll be better soon dear fifteen year old pal, it’ll be alright – the money was spent on tissues; a tissue transaction to soak up the many tears cascading down a soft cheek, skin that’s pimpled and pigmented and undergoing puberty; so young. The cheek of youth stained by tears. I can’t talk about my sorrows because it just shows how much of a teenager I am, someone who likes to complain and shriek and sob at the dinner table, cigarette hanging from my lips, tobacco nicking the piercing glistening on the skin of my lips, sins spilling from my lips. I can’t talk about the fact that I am also a vessel of regret, of sadness, of depressing things to talk about, like my mother, her mother, her husband, his wife, the grown-up cousin at a wedding, my distant relative whose son is the CEO of a tissue paper company that may or may not make money from sad kids who soak misery into the three-ply, four-ply, five-ply tissue paper like how teenagers – the girls, that is – use pads on their periods. I can’t pass discourse over the women who buy pads in excess and the fact that teenagers need them more than they do, nowadays, because I am too young and I should not have gotten my period, and I ought to keep my mouth shut. I can’t let the words tired, sad, really frustrated, want to fling myself off the building you work at slip out of my mouth, because the world has given me the privilege of owning thread and a needle to sew my young, ripe mouth up.

humansarenotmachines

You promise yourself a lot of things
But everlasting youth couldn’t be attained
*
What is innocence? Simply an age of five-to-fifteen?
What are tissues; simply items to mop your cheeks away, clean
of evidence of destruction and self-despair.
 *
How do people swill in their sorrows
and pop those spilling out with a pill
When I can hardly breathe, living with myself.
*
 *
It’s short and sweet, I think, keeping my head down,
my hoodie flipped up, eyes on the sidewalk and hands in my pockets
Life is short and sweet, so I’ll just live like how I want to.
*
But there is this pain,
insufferable pain,
blinding pain,
WHITE PAIN
that screams to me in the comfort of darkness;
I want to hide under it, for it’s
warm. The dark is warm,
 *
Things don’t work anymore. They simply do not, hence
I stop the machine.