i don't know how long i'd been out here, and i didn't really care.
indoors was too smothering, like the ceiling was slowly melting into the floor and threatening to crush me in the middle. but out here--too cold, too exposed. tonight the sky seemed as empty as i was, hanging there in silence high above me and my problems.
i finally stopped running and collapsed on my knees, out of breath and out of options.
footsteps?
let them pass, maybe they won't see me.
and if they do? well, everybody has bad days, right?
or weeks... or months...
i can't be the only one.
the footsteps grew closer,
and as i stared at the ground hoping to evade eye contact at all costs,
i saw him.
and as i stared at the ground hoping to evade eye contact at all costs,
i saw him.
i saw him moving slowly, a single silhouette on the ground.
he dragged it behind him on the cold concrete, his movements heavy and pained.
it was mangled and twisted, definitely broken.
he struggled to pull his lifeless leg along, to keep pushing through the pain, to keep going--
but it was useless. the end was near.
without help, he would die soon.
another figure emerged from the darkness,
and i saw hers too.
they hung unceremoniously behind her, lifeless and torn.
once her pride and glory, a work of art that used to shimmer in the light, her instruments of escape from the ground below to whatever heights her heart desired--twisted and bent out of shape.
ripped from her shoulders.
she was grounded.
no flight, no food, no light.
she would die soon.
i see them both now, on either side of me:
two wounded creatures, a moth and a mosquito, crippled and maimed,
gingerly stumbling around in the darkness, unknowingly drawn towards each other by some unseen force of destiny or fate or cruel luck.
and it was too late to turn around now.
he hobbled a little faster. he knew it was ugly, twisted into unsightly positions. he only hoped she wouldn't stare. maybe she wouldn't see it.
her gaze fell immediately, tears welling in her eyes, ashamed of her scars.
i watched, my heart in my throat as the distance between them slowly disappeared.
they neared, they almost touched--
and then they passed.
they walked right through each other without so much as a glance or a nod of recognition,
eyes averted, wounds too deep.
they vanished into the darkness once again, fates sealed.
i couldn't breathe.
a voluntary death sentence. a double suicide.
why?
but i know why.
i know all too well.
it all came rushing back to me: the fleeting glances, reluctant smiles, mumbled replies, and trembling voices--how many have i seen in my short existence? how much more have i missed because i turned my own eyes away, trying to disappear into the sidewalk? how many have i shouldered past because i feared my own scars would be exposed?
i shoved my hands deep into my pockets.
guilty.
you'll see them too if you pay attention:
stragglers with their hearts full of holes, believing they are damaged beyond repair,
carrying the weight of broken wings and the fear that they'll never fly again,
destined to die alone.
but most of us are too busy licking our own wounds to notice the one quietly bleeding out next to us.
the night is full of these poor creatures;
hopelessly awake, sleep far from their minds.
some wander about, simply searching for warmth and a light for their darkness.
others roam with teeth bared,
seeking to draw life from another warm body to ease their own pain because they themselves have become cold and lifeless.
the night is home to two kinds of creatures:
moths and mosquitos.
i made myself a promise:
i will never turn my eyes away again.
but it's hard. sometimes it's scary.
some days i feel like a dead man walking,
a zombie,
too scared to look you in the eye for fear that you'll see what's really behind this thousand-yard stare,
knowing all too well of the pain that lies beneath.
but a promise is a promise.
so when i saw her standing there, wings in a knot, eyes swollen,
i panicked.
what should i do?
i see her, but now what?
is she moth or mosquito?
does it matter?
i began to draw my hands out of my pockets and then stopped myself.
there's glass under my fingernails, and my veins are full of crystal, sharp and fragile.
im a mess of delicate parts and precious pieces, molded by a shattered past and an uncertain future. my feet are raw from walking on eggshells, trying to tiptoe over the jagged shards of my broken heart without getting cut. it's pretty tricky sometimes, trying to carry it all without bursting.
but today, i have blood on my hands.
i faltered.
i am made of glass--lost, broken, invisible.
i can't fix you.
does it matter?
i fished for words,
for some enlightened, encouraging one-liner to neatly fill the hole in her shoulder where her wings used to grow, to dry her tears and set her back on her feet in one swift motion. the hole was ugly and deep, like me.
but i had nothing. nothing to offer but silence and blood-stained glass.
crystal began to tumble down her cheeks,
and in a moment of terror, i lept towards her,
running to catch the little fragments one by one before they hit the ground and shattered into a million pieces, each one making little clinking sounds as they collided and mingled with the shards in my palms.
and there we sat:
her shoulders shaking gently as she cried,
and i, gingerly cradling a handful of tear-shaped jewels that could be hanging on a necklace or a large chandelier somewhere. the pile in my hands grew heavier as they hardened, and small cracks began to emerge on my arms and face, ominously crawling about and threatening to burst as i struggled to hold it all together.
the first rays of sunrise began to creep over the horizon, dancing through the precious stones in my hands, casting small rainbows of light all around and warming our tired, dirty faces. her breathing became regular again, rhythmic; no more in little gasps straining for life. felt like id been holding my breath for hours.
the sun continued to rise, smiling down on the two survivors,
two wounded creatures--
broken,
but no longer alone.
a voluntary death sentence. a double suicide.
why?
but i know why.
i know all too well.
it all came rushing back to me: the fleeting glances, reluctant smiles, mumbled replies, and trembling voices--how many have i seen in my short existence? how much more have i missed because i turned my own eyes away, trying to disappear into the sidewalk? how many have i shouldered past because i feared my own scars would be exposed?
i shoved my hands deep into my pockets.
guilty.
you'll see them too if you pay attention:
stragglers with their hearts full of holes, believing they are damaged beyond repair,
carrying the weight of broken wings and the fear that they'll never fly again,
destined to die alone.
but most of us are too busy licking our own wounds to notice the one quietly bleeding out next to us.
the night is full of these poor creatures;
hopelessly awake, sleep far from their minds.
some wander about, simply searching for warmth and a light for their darkness.
others roam with teeth bared,
seeking to draw life from another warm body to ease their own pain because they themselves have become cold and lifeless.
the night is home to two kinds of creatures:
moths and mosquitos.
i made myself a promise:
i will never turn my eyes away again.
but it's hard. sometimes it's scary.
some days i feel like a dead man walking,
a zombie,
too scared to look you in the eye for fear that you'll see what's really behind this thousand-yard stare,
knowing all too well of the pain that lies beneath.
but a promise is a promise.
so when i saw her standing there, wings in a knot, eyes swollen,
i panicked.
what should i do?
i see her, but now what?
is she moth or mosquito?
does it matter?
i began to draw my hands out of my pockets and then stopped myself.
there's glass under my fingernails, and my veins are full of crystal, sharp and fragile.
im a mess of delicate parts and precious pieces, molded by a shattered past and an uncertain future. my feet are raw from walking on eggshells, trying to tiptoe over the jagged shards of my broken heart without getting cut. it's pretty tricky sometimes, trying to carry it all without bursting.
but today, i have blood on my hands.
i faltered.
i am made of glass--lost, broken, invisible.
i can't fix you.
does it matter?
i fished for words,
for some enlightened, encouraging one-liner to neatly fill the hole in her shoulder where her wings used to grow, to dry her tears and set her back on her feet in one swift motion. the hole was ugly and deep, like me.
but i had nothing. nothing to offer but silence and blood-stained glass.
crystal began to tumble down her cheeks,
and in a moment of terror, i lept towards her,
running to catch the little fragments one by one before they hit the ground and shattered into a million pieces, each one making little clinking sounds as they collided and mingled with the shards in my palms.
and there we sat:
her shoulders shaking gently as she cried,
and i, gingerly cradling a handful of tear-shaped jewels that could be hanging on a necklace or a large chandelier somewhere. the pile in my hands grew heavier as they hardened, and small cracks began to emerge on my arms and face, ominously crawling about and threatening to burst as i struggled to hold it all together.
the first rays of sunrise began to creep over the horizon, dancing through the precious stones in my hands, casting small rainbows of light all around and warming our tired, dirty faces. her breathing became regular again, rhythmic; no more in little gasps straining for life. felt like id been holding my breath for hours.
the sun continued to rise, smiling down on the two survivors,
two wounded creatures--
broken,
but no longer alone.
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