These are the days
when I drown
from my own self-doubt,
and I choke
from my own sad tears.
“Why do you write sad things?” is one of the hardest questions I’ve always been asked.
How could I answer that? How could I tell you that all I have is sadness, and all I can share to the world is sadness? How could I tell you that every time I get a little glimpse of happiness, I always just save it for myself, keeping it close to my heart, memorizing every details and feelings, and not writing it down because writing it down feels a lot like giving it away, like I am letting that little happiness go. How could I tell you that I write sad things to purge it out from my system? That it is impossible to write sad things without sadness consuming you to the core to the point that all you can do is to bleed it out on the paper. How could I tell you that? That I write sad things to let it out, hoping that one day it would never come back, that maybe one day, I will finally succeed in writing all my sadness away.
I swear she tried, she tried to dry her tears, she tried to stop it from flowing to her cheeks, she tried to stop her tears from wetting the pages she writes on, she tried to write happy stories and to think happy thoughts and to anticipate a happy future that may or may not await her. Yet she still couldn’t help but cry each night. Can you hear her sobbing at night when the world is asleep and at peace? She writes the saddest stories, but even the saddest of the saddest stories she had written couldn’t compare to how her heart is breaking right now, in real life.
And I swear she tried her best to rewrite this story, her story, but her tears had already smudged her words, clouded her vision, ruined her hope.
I was taught young how to be stone-cold, self-reliant, to hold myself high and poised, with a ready smile and a subtle charm ready to conquer the world. So I learned from early on to only cry behind close doors, on dim lights, without sound, to howl in pain silently, to break down without anyone knowing, and to never ask for help. Because when no one sees you suffering, do you really suffer? Much like, when a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? I can always just pretend that whatever pains me never happened, and I can always go back and face the world pretending I’m okay.
“I want to cry. I want to fucking cry.” I say to the moon, in between sobs.
I imagine the moon saying, “so cry, I will listen.” And I am crying, I’ve been crying for the past 15 minutes, non-stop, but I still want to cry. This didn’t feel like crying. It’s just tears straining down on my cheeks, sobs that echoes to no one, a heart that breaks silently, without anyone knowing.
“I want to cry,” I say again. “I want to cry and shout and scream at the top of my lungs. I want him to hear me hurting. I want him to see me as I break into pieces, I want him to know how my soul shatters because of him, I want him to feel every fucking hurt he caused me. I want to cry. I want him to see me cry, and I want him to put his arms around me, and tell me ‘darling, it’s okay, I’m here, I won’t ever hurt you again. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.’ until I fall asleep in his arms with his soothing words echoing in my dreams.”
//excerpt from a book i’ll never write # 13
“Tell me something I didn’t know,” he asked me while we were walking hand in hand on our way to my house. It was our usual past time, a quick game of some sorts to give each other weird facts and trivias.
“I don’t love you anymore.” I said. I took a quick glance at him, expecting him to be shock or angry, but instead, he just had this sad smile in his eyes.
“Tell me something I didn’t know,” he said again, holding my hand tighter this time.
//excerpt from a book i’ll never write # 12