Turning Point by 7ala Abdullah

Posted on December 31, 2011 by

1


Blue was your

least favorite color,

but you wore it on

your skin like a trophy,

like it was something

you were born in,

like it was a gift

you were asked

to never take off.

Empty smiles served

as your silver and gold,

as your diamonds

and pearls,

you thought them

very well befitting the

scarves strung

around your neck:

those knitted little

must-not-speaks

that threatened to pull

at both sides if you were

ever to utter those words

that churned the very

insides of your stomach.

 

 

Here you are, facing

the mirror that never

quite gave you clarity.

You are anything

but true to yourself.

 

 

You spend your days

in a violent haze,

 

drowning in

your merciless thoughts. In your

head, they’re

boundless as the sea

but they end up condensed

to a single insignificant drop

that lingers unspoken

at the tip of your tongue

until you find yourself

swallowing,

defeated.

If this feeling were a

part of human anatomy,

you think

it would definitely be

a rib cage, for it holds you

hostage;

quietly asphyxiated,

effectively suffocated,

promising eternal safety

to the seemingly undying

ache it harbors – to

the inhales and exhales

of a hopeless entity,

to a Stockholm Syndrome

victim who never

knew any better.

If this feeling were a

part of human anatomy,

you think

it would never be a hand,

for hands always give,

and hands always caress,

and hands always comfort,

and all it does is take

away more and more

of your livelihood,

as it robs you

of your will to breathe.

These can’t be fingers,

you think,

because fingers

are graceful,

and fingers

hold,

and all you ever

seem to be doing is

falling

ever so gracelessly.

 

 

Here you are,

chalking your pain

up to destiny.

You are anything

but safe in your skin.

 

 

 

 

You lie in an

unfathomable mess

of adult urges

and childish fears.

You think your future’s

all written out

for you like a script

you can’t ever change:

Act one;

you are forever

defined

by the shifting of

your eyes, by the

hesitation of your

lips, by the worrisome

longing of your skin.

Act two;

you will always be

waiting for the chaos

in your head

to settle, for the

whispering in your

ears to speak

in a different

language,

a language you know

you’re allowed

to listen to.

The final act;

you will spend

the rest of your

mortality

wishing for a time

and place where

these words

could slide right off

your taste buds without

a life sentence.

And then you will die.

 

 

And yet, here you are,

entrapping yourself

in your own version of

black and white stripes.

 

 

 

 

You are anything,

but you are nothing

until

you admit

that this is who you are,

until you hold your head

up high –     not in pride,

but in recognition,

and appreciation of the

parts of you

that refuse to wilt

away, of the side of you

that refuses to

break at the bending

of your surroundings.

You are anything,

but you are nothing

because you keep

yourself imprisoned

in this shameful prism.

You’ve gone and

confined your own light

inside these hateful walls,

unaware that

all you ever had to do

to feel alive is to

just let it flow right out of you,

so it could pass through

and seep to the other side;

so your rainbows

could set the universe

into color, could set

their depressing grey

into an understanding

shade of

everything

between red and violet.

You are anything,

but you are nothing

until you tear off the skin

sewn forcefully onto your body

for the skin you were born in.

 

 

This is who you are.

 

 

And better aeons late

than never,

make peace with it.

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