IT’S 5 A.M & YOU’VE ONLY LEARNED HOW TO RESENT…
…every person that you’ve ever been or will be. you wake up
like the cold & wintry corpse of someone you once buried in
the garden. you’re atoning for all the years you’ve spent alive
& the blooming marigold of dawn has yet to break the horizon.
you’re an abandoned painting, nebulous & pewter-grey with dust.
the wind wends through the sleepy absinthe forests & steely
fog while you’re wishing you’ve prostrated yourself on some
decaying stone altar with a cut throat. you want to beg for a
morsel of forgiveness for even breathing. you’ve forgotten
a world unmarred by your existence & you’re burning offerings
as if they’re apologies, as if they’re bridges you no longer need.
i wish i could grab you, lily-white nails digging into your cheeks,
palms soft against your trembling jaw. i’d scream into your ears
about all the things you’d hate to hear but you’re just a ghost
inhabiting a body that no longer belongs to you, fitful & hollow.
you’ve molded yourself in the image of sisyphus. how could i
ever reconstruct you when you’ve subjected yourself to a litany
of acrid fire? tomorrow, you’ll yield your bird-boned spine, bow
your head, & call yourself atlas, burdened by the whole world.
you pluck sunflowers out of their beds every morning & loathe
everyone who’s ever loved you for making that mistake. your
breath catches in your brittle throat when the first syllable of
your name rolls off a bitter tongue. you’re carrying grievances
like a looming cloud threatening a disaster at the slightest
change of wind. you sing a lament for some form of salvation
& find yourself wanting, knotted & inelegant with displeasure.
you’ve shut yourself in the distended canyon of your bedroom,
built by your own hands. you keep shouting, searching for
anyone else but you, & the only words you’ll ever hear are
your own. every scorching wail that leaves your mouth is so
thundering that it silences the seething screams from the sun,
skies, & shadows. not even the loudest proclamation of love
will cut through the miasma you’ve concocted. the white noise
you’ve crafted in fits of self-flagellation is the only sound you
will seek shelter in. as long as you’re drowning in something
of your own making, there’s no one else to lay the blame upon.
no one can penetrate the damp sorrow you’ve sentenced
yourself to decompose in. you’re aimless but alive, nestled in
a static of stormy melancholia. i want to seize you by the
throat & tear you out of the sickly, sullen ice you’ve encased
your remains in. i wish i could cut you with the benevolence of
a sword’s edge & drag you to the edge of a scarlet sunrise
where life continues to thrive. it’s time you’ve mourned for
the savage monstrosities you’ve fabricated in your thoughts.
i press in like a taut crescent of metal & carve out the writhing
shadows of your mind. you shriek, desperate & sputtering,
& claw at the the broken glass of your falsified contentment.
this isn’t revenge or one of the bloody vendettas anchored in
your heart. look, the sky is lightening & the day is breaking.
it’s 5 a.m—the morning is unyielding & unforgiving, but sunlight
unfurls, an appeal to innocence & tenderness. your fragile hands
are cradling singing seraphs & the absolution you once sought.
— tuyet an liu | aimi liu