Life After Death
"House of lies, pride and bone,
The gauzy instability in my augmentation, I feel the hostility commence deep into my lanes. I prom in the masquerade of the mirror and cannot identify myself as an entirety. The melody doesn’t assemble my body to sway, my hands envelope the playlist and the pursuit button, and my fingers order Alexa to direct that of despair; bleak songs that I now find myself dancing to.
It is a reminiscence of my being; raw and unexposed emotions, I forever bottle up inside and keep befoul. I uphold myself content; to not lose anybody any yonder, possibly in the name of not relinquishing myself. I rebelled against all, me against myself was a warfare I would always remain, defeated.
A knockout protrudes and I stumble upon myself sprawled on the floor. My potencies ached, dismembered them; my hysteria was that of the loitering past that cocoons me, it does not flee. Three lines, that my three fingers contour, bars of light I memorize, who should grant me my sovereignty.
Now, it is opaque as it is, the unseen hides themselves away from me. I pilgrimage through the shadows as a ghoul, the ghost of the village. The creaks on the footings protrude and are filled in contamination of my heart, shattering like a water-filled glass against the tables where every father would strike to resemble their vexation.
The anxiety would creep up on me and besiege me like demons; his voice would periodically sound lethal; the injection would make me go hazy and numb.
For I was reckless, I was raw with exposed sentiments, uncertainties that would invariably loiter as of a seed commencing into an expedition of growth; metamorphosis was not the most pleasant thing.
The sentiments would spiral too much; vigorous and vital, it was helical I longed to break free of.
Three lines, I illustrated with the blood spewing from my wrist, three cords, when confiscated in a cage. That of an animal, those children saw, witnessed, pried at the only reflection of light ridiculing them. The window was not enclosed; my trudges through the gloaming hours became more conspicuous than ever.
I unfurled my hand and drew with the crimson pigmentation that I retained. Three lines; raw and unexposed. His voice brings me back to life, it snaps me out of my reverie, my longing daze. My wonders about ever being valued again were miraculously fulfilled with an answer right in a facade. Though my eyes were taped shut; together, still the murky dust and my visuals could not stimulate reality. Though his presence, a lonely inch of it shrouded me with serenity.
His hands conveyed me with fervency and understanding; to be loved. My bare sentiments got the best of me; I pried my eyes open in a fatal attempt to expose the truth. For I carried my baggage like everybody else, and foreshadowed it at every u-turn; to not be seen of, heard of, to be non-existent. The weight I bear with me was insufferable; selfish, selfish, selfish.
Literate, lonely words which were engraved into my brain, to drag others towards my demise.
Though He was life after death. And I undoubtedly was indeed death with every virtue, he existed as the sun, and I as the rain. He was the light beaming in every enclosure, and I was shrouded with darkness. We were the contraries in this universe, opposites. We could not live a life beyond this. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish, I lacerated my arms with the hatred of my own entity dignifying in my heart.
Selfish."
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Dilara Aydin
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