silences

:

your body’s holding scars and

i’m too scared to ask

how it feels wearing them

today

and how

deep they’re etched

into your selflessness

:

it‘s been 14 years that

you told me you‘re parentless and i

keep asking

myself

what could i‘ve done to

help you heal

:

we‘ve never learned

to speak

/spiːk/

we‘ve never learned

to cry

/krʌɪ/

[together

therefore]

we‘re still

close[d]

somehow

:

you said „family?

/ˈfam(ɪ)li/

is this,

is you,

not them!“

:

cold moon

yesterday

the kitchen’s scent of

lemongrass and orange

„where do i belong?“

He stood over the sink, his back rounded, shoulders leaning inwards, gray shirt too big on him now. The sound of the faucet blurred out the radio on the window sill. He always left the water running while he did dishes, although he knew I hated that.

It had been my turn to clean up. The soap smelled of something familiar. There was something I wanted to say.

The water was running. He cleared his throat and added more soap to the sponge. On the radio, the song changed.

:

tiny little

needles 

that are poking into 

our skins

ready to stitch us together so

one day we‘ll remember 

what it means to be held

/held/

:

i see the dimmed 

kitchen light reflecting 

in your gaze

see myself

and parts of us

and your fear of

being lone

:

what is tearing you apart

is a memory 

you saved and

remember every time 

you‘re smelling 

scents of rain

:

each drop against the 

kitchen’s window

just an act of patience 

to learn

/lɜːn/

how to love

/låːˈvə/

:

“the makings of you“

on the radio speaker

He had placed the last dish on the rack when his phone went off on the counter. “It’s my mother again,” he said, although I hadn’t asked.

He turned off the water and wiped his hands. The phone rang three more times before it stopped.

He looked out the window, humming along with the song. The rain made the sidewalk shine, the trees ripple with motion.

I opened my mouth and then closed it again. It was too warm in the kitchen.

:

surrounded by despair i

can see the room is filled

filled with 

so much noise

so loud i‘d call it silence

eventually 

:

inevitable that

you‘re conflicted

“choose your weapon” what a stupid slogan

even if you keep it too yourself

it’s hurting “can’t you see?”

:

since the fire down the street 

we know the consequences so

this one is on me

not you acting like a child

but me failing to provide assistance 

i believe

:

i’m still learning how

to read

/riːd/

hope time is on my side

your voice

so peaceful

when you’re humming

He tapped his fingers against the counter, tilting his head to look at something above. There was a patch of dry skin on his neck he was supposed to be treating but forgot about unless I reminded him.

I wondered what he was looking at. I wondered if he knew he was humming. I wondered if it would rain all night.

It would have been so easy then to stop, to turn back or forward, to pop open one of the silences like a soap bubble.

“The tea is ready,” I said, and turned away.