A Sunday Evening

( tw // suicide implied )

Here is a broken sentence
Of a broken story:

The light poles across this city
Waver in the oceans beneath
And I walk in silent steps that
Resound a flaky dream.
There is a girl in blue denim-
Her hair deluged in saffron-
Echoing my name in between musical notes
And I dance to mellifluous memories
Because I know of no time abound
In a city that knows no infinity.

I bask in the artificial words that weave these beams of yellow light bulbs
These words that mould my nights into a dreamscape
Ebbing away with the dust that scathes my skin,
Clasp the waning smudges of lipstick on the mirror
Atop the clouds that dissolve in the ink swallowing the sky.

On a Sunday evening when the quietude was stifling,
The city was a Renaissance painting,
The hours that slipped were ordinary,
And a dawdling poem was scribbled on my notes;
The questions were smothering a rupture in a flurry of expectations
And so I wished to end the life in a plastic bag.

Here are blotches of tears that were spurned
A tender smile and a humane colloquy etched on the shredded pages of a notebook
And a deep, seething wound beneath what meets the eye

Voices;
Not enough, not enough, not enough
Misery, misery, misery
Too much, too less
Too pretty, too young
Too foolish, too immature
Too selfish, too nice
Bad planning, bad timing, bad speaking
Bad interests, bad talent, bad pursuits
Bad grades, bad clothes, bad progress
Bad leader, bad member, bad student
Bad friend, bad girlfriend, bad daughter
Bad human.

A background score of a favourite song
Dying away as eyelids swell
A warm breeze of yearning from a human miles away
Dying away as mouth screams
A promise of a hushed woman in the corner
Dying away as tremors of head disintegrate the plastic bag
But withers away in the silent earthquake of the heart.

Nevertheless,
Just a wish. 

Notes:

One cannot make arbitrary conclusions about a person based on what meets their eye or upon a listen to one side of the story. A human being is multi-faceted; no one knows what happens with a certain someone on the other end of their daily life as well as within their mind. Sometimes the people we trust the most are the reason we think so little of ourselves. Sometimes, we don’t see the point of living on anymore. It feels like the end of the world when a catalogue of your failures, your insecurities, your past is warped and distorted to be etched upon your skin and that is exactly when you wish to end the life in a plastic bag. But at the end, the wish remains a wish, and the life lies still choking on heaps of microplastic.