i (still) Write

The smell of cigarette smoke was like a burning chemical that sears the nostrils and clings to the throat—sharp, biting, and unnaturally harsh. And it tells a story. A sad one, at least in my head. The scent slithers into the deepest recesses of my mind, slipping beneath doors I thought were long shut, only to reveal a room still fully furnished with pain.

The moments came at odd angles, like broken glass in the window of an abandoned barn. A flash of light. A hand that did not ask. A laugh that wasn't mine. The smell of cigarette smoke. Then nothing—only the residue of confusion and fear.

I lived around that smell. Like a house with cracked windows. It finds its way back in, no matter how tightly I close the door. 

I know you haven't slept in awhile. The dark circles under your eyes and the blank stare give it away. Your eyelids are drooping and you yawn every 10 seconds or less. Tired and defeated, that's how you look.

Tired. Ain't it funny to feel sleepy but unable to actually sleep. The body is begging for you to rest, but your seemingly rabid mind refuses. It spins around and around until it collides with your sanity.

The mind. It goes to places it should not go. It explores creases and nooks that have been hidden for a reason so long ago. It challenges your reality, banging on doors, and peering on windows. Rousing the demons shackled within.

You tossed and turned in bed while the time on your bedside clock rolled on. Finally, you gave up. You sat on your bed clutching your comforter to your chest. You prayed, like you do every night when the monsters have decided to leave the dark place inside your head, -  to crawl on your bedroom floor , on its walls, and ceiling. They leer at your inability to rest.

First you beg, then you negotiate, and then you demand, and finally, like the real loser that you are,  you beg some more.

But God probably had no problem going to sleep.

The fear is real, even if the reason for the fear is absurd. Your heart is pounding like it would jump out of your chest any moment and leave you. Everybody leaves you.

Your teeth chatter, your body shakes, and your vision tunnels. You can't breathe. The air around you is cold and hot at the same time. Your mind orders you to run! 

And you do as you are told.

You  run to the door, but it's bolted shut as usual. So you cower under the table instead, trying to remember what made you so scared in the first place. But the sense of doom is so thick you can almost taste it.

A voice calls your name.  It sounds so far away. You strained to hear, but the beating of your  heart is too loud; it cancels out all the other sounds.

And then a hand touched you, and you screamed.

You recoiled, and then you tried to fight. You beat on his chest, tried to claw out his eyes. But he was so much stronger. THEY were so much stronger.

the stench of unwashed hair, mouth that smelled of cigarette smoke and stale coffee, - makes you want to gag.

The filthiness of it all is almost as unbearable as the pain.

The pain.

It burns. Like fire licking flesh. Like a serrated knife shoved ever so slowly through your heart, only to be pulled out again. It's like electricity wired directly to your soul. It left you empty.

Faces. They emerge and melt amidst the chaos in your head.  By then, you were no longer screaming. You are whimpering like an injured dog.

Disembodied voices said, you were okay. Of course they lied. They always do.

It was never the same was it – after the trauma? Not the sunrise. Not the sunset. Not the air you breathe. Nothing was ever the same. Not even your dreams.

Nightmares are dreams too.

Your hate is tangled to your misery, while your fears take over everything else.

Fear can be so familiar –  it's like a mirror of yourself. It takes over, and you fade away.

I know you struggled to get out of bed today. But you made it. You dragged your exhausted frame and assembled every part to their proper place. You learned your lines; sculpted your expression. You are ready to put on a show.

But I see through your carefully crafted mask.

Your eyes give it away – or your lackluster smile. You are a shell. You are empty.

Sometimes, you shove your hands inside your pockets to hide the tremors, just like how you hide the cuts behind expensive clothes.

I know, because I am  in the dark, – with you.

We are both shadows in the night, just trying to make it through the day.

A blank page stares back—

an accusing  absence.

while I sit inside my head,

thoughts fraying  — like dying ember

The mind is  quiet. Sterile. Still.

The pain muted into nothing,

and nothing –  doesn’t speak.

The ink that writes with pain has bled

the heartbeat feels borrowed—

a sound I remember,

but cannot feel.

Maybe, forever isn’t really about staying. It’s about never fading.

Like the colors deepening  during sunset, - gold to amber, amber to rose, rose to violet, - and it feels like memory settling deep in your heart. Not painful, …just warm.

It’s an old song that opens a long forgotten room in the soul that you realize is still furnished with memories.

Forever is a whisper in  quiet moments, like the soft glow of a candle, long after the flame has gone out - just warmth lingering in the air, silent but steady, carrying the shape of the light that once lived there.

Maybe, forever is an echo of a story long after the characters are gone, - a continuity of an essence that refuses to fade