5 more minutes
I’d mumble
Wake up
Repeating
I’d mumble again
Wake up
Louder, a yell
Wake up
Wake up
A scream
Wake up
5 more minutes
I yell
I scream
An acquiesce
Because what’s 5 minutes
When you have your whole life

Let her sleep
she’d mumble
A sigh of muffled relief
Burrowed in a sweaty pillow
escaping to my dreams again
Where 5 minutes feels like 5 hours, 5 days
5 more minutes
I’d say half asleep
At 5, 6, 7
13
15
Wake up
17
Nobody wakes me up now
I awoke

At 22
I miss you
5 more minutes
I say to no one at all
I want to escape to my dreams again
You only live there
Where you stroke my skin
And nothing is wrong
And 5 minutes feels like a lifetime

Do you ever wish,
you could redo it
all
over
again?

Go back to when
there were no problems,
or at least
no real problems.

A time I can’t even remember anymore
let alone imagine,
No pressure or worries?
back to a flowing, carefree entity…

All the what ifs?
they will always gnaw at me,
would I like to satiate them,
or are they better off starved?

Although, I know
the future doesn’t wait,
so some time or another
it will arrive.

And there will always be
more bad things to happen,
more good things to happen,
more losses than wins

So would I try to escape or
accept what I cannot change
and keep going
anyway?

Returned to where I grew up
the house was there
home was not

smile of an exuberant child,
drowning deep in the sea.
his loquacious nature backthen,
vanished like it never existed.
ove'thinkin is not so mild,
adulthood is the reason he riled.

With a bit of mud upon their peak
a pair of tiny birds ventured into our abode.
I asked my mother, tinged with excitement
“Mother! Why have they graced our home?”

“To craft their dwelling,” replied Mother.

My childhood routine altered—
to oversee the endeavors of those winged beings
and witness the splendid nest they shaped.

Then came the day when Mother uttered,
“The swallows have birthed their offspring.”

Swiftly,
the fledglings matured, mastering the art of flight
and on one uncertain day
they soared away from the nest
yet didn’t return.

My heart echoed the emptiness
of the now-deserted nest.

Mother sighed and shared,
“It appears, the fledglings have departed their nests.”

Weary of my persistent inquiries
regarding the rationale behind their departure
Mother, one day, responded with irritation—
“Their progeny has blossomed into adulthood
they’ve left the haven of the nest
bound to their mates
busy crafting a new abode afar.”

I rushed to Mother
clasped her in a tight embrace, and
with resolute tones, proclaimed,
“Mother! I’ll never make another home!
I’ll stay forever young!”

-०-

When I was little,
I thought I’d grow up
and become someone
that glittered.

Not famous.
Not rich.
Just soft.
Just full of light.
Someone who laughed without flinching
and felt safe in her own skin.
Someone who saved the day
and got to sleep through the night.

I thought growing up
meant choosing your favorite ice cream
at midnight,
meant late-night dances in the kitchen,
meant freedom with a ribbon tied around it.

I didn’t know
it meant silence in hospital beds
and scars you don’t show.

I didn’t know
that being alive would ever feel
so close to being lost.

I didn’t imagine this.

When I was nine,
I made wishes on stars.
I believed in fairy godmothers,
second chances,
and that every sad ending
was just a chapter
before the miracle.

But my miracle must’ve gotten stuck somewhere
between foster care statistics
and the wrong people with the wrong intentions,
between school hallways
and rooms where no one listened
until I screamed.

I didn’t think
growing up meant learning
how to be quiet enough
to stay safe.

Didn’t think it meant
counting calories
and skipped meals
and mistakes you can’t scrub off.

Didn’t think
it would be this hard
to get out of bed
on a Tuesday.

No one told me
that sometimes the monsters win.
And they don’t have fangs
or claws—
just names and job titles
and the ability
to be believed.

The girl I used to be
wouldn’t recognize me now.
She’d ask why I stopped painting,
why I’m always tired,
why I never dance in the kitchen anymore.
She’d ask
what happened to magic.
And I wouldn’t know
how to answer.

Because I don’t want to tell her
that sometimes the world
breaks you
before you have the words
to explain the damage.

That sometimes
you survive things
so dark
you can’t ever go back
to who you were
before.

And I don’t want to see her face
when I say that dreams
don’t come true
just because you want them to.

That no matter how bright your heart is,
there are places so cold
even hope shivers.

But still—
I hope she never stops wishing.
Because I don’t know who I’d be
if I didn’t remember
how she used to believe.

And sometimes,
on quiet nights,
I still look up
at the same stars
and wonder
if maybe
she’s still in there somewhere.

If maybe
there’s still time
to become someone
she’d be proud of.

My memories are few and far between -
a strange symptom of a strange sickenss -
a brain worm: one that chews.
One that leaves spaces, pauses,
where previously there were none.
A parasite, an affliction that eats, that consumes.
My memories are few and far between,
they keep me up at night. Loud and unruly.
Misplaced. Incomplete. Lacking.
They are a large crowd, gaining, invading,
growing, incoming, moving ever closer,
attacking. Pitchforks made of wood
and something I don't recognise.
A vague feeling of unease,
a displaced feeling, uncomfortable and unreal.
A reminder of all I am not. Of all I have not.

My memories are many and chronic,
a forever affliction, unending and all-consuming.
Mistakes I've made; feelings I've ignored.
Things I've lost: sisters and lovers.
Things I've found, fading out, fading in.  
It is a sort of death, in that regard:
I was a child and now I am not.
An age, a past, laid out beneath you,
stuffed in a box,
suffocated under six feet of dirt,
a tombstone rammed between its eyes.
One memory or two, a lifetime,
sinking into the mud.
An earth worm: one that chews.
Your body belongs to you,
and your body belongs to someone else.
A boy. An ancient thing.
You and the other you.
You and all you could be.
You and all you are not.

I am a man lacking in memories,
there are gaps in my life I cannot fill,
places and people, fuzzy, faded.
Real and not real, mixing together, obscurring,
distorting, corrupting.
False memories: tales of my youth
told only by drunk aunties and dead grandmas.
Fantasies created by others,
a lacking and a need to fill it.
Tales of my youth locked away, burnt into
diaries and journals,
hidden away or destroyed entirely,
told, scrawled and scratched
into the walls, into the mind.
A frightened mind. A disease,
an affliction. Delusions and hallucinations,
paranoia. Fantasies created by me.  

And I am a man drowning in them,
good and bad. Real and not.
We are patchwork quilts
of all we were and all we are
and all we will be.
We are sewn together and torn apart.
Our stitches just scars, our colours faded,
unskilled attempts at beauty, at life.
Worn down and dusty,
seams failing, patterns ugly.
Used and loved
and then unused and unloved.
A circle. A roundabout.
New and old. Good and bad.
Used and unused.  
But you are not your body.
Your temple prays to no-one.
You're a work of art,
and you're canvas
of just shape and colour.
You're a patchwork quilt
and your scars are just stiches.  

You have no memories,
a blank slate,
dead and now reborn,
a child and then not.
A body that is not you, that could never
be you, a mind -
a collection of memories, dreams, realities,
people, places, sisters, lovers -
without meaning,
a mind that has nothing.
A blank slate.
A momentary madness.
A mind that is not you,
and a mind that could be nothing but.

And yet you have so many,
written into your skin,
carved, engraved.
Trapped, running and jumping
through your veins.
Unstoppable. Unbeatable.
Real or not, it's all the same,
ask yourself:
which is the greater sin,
to have too many memories
or too few?
Which holds you by the throat
and which goes straight for the lungs?
The excess and the absence.
It's all-consuming; it's suffocating.
A brain worm; six feet of dirt.

You are a man lacking in memories,
and you are a man drowning in them.