I am quick to forget the taste of guilt (Episode 2)
There were nights I begged the sun not to rise, but how do I say this in public without sounding like a drowning man kicking and gasping for breath?
Was it the food? The books? Or the songs I listened to? I just know I wasn't feeding right cause I would wake up to the growling sound of guilt in my belly everyday.
And for as long as I can remember, I've always been hungry, it must have been my heart; an empty heart sometimes feels like an empty stomach, they say.
Every night I would post a suicide note on Facebook and by morning I would wake to comments like, "Nabas, your poem lulled me to sleep", "oh Nabas, this is a very sad poem, but it's also beautiful."
Sad but beautiful? Isn't that a cruel thing to say? How do you fit beauty into a coffin and not look like a beast? Anyway, they're not the first to romanticize pain.
I'm sorry if I can't share intricately what happened four years ago that had often made me rise from bed every morning like resurrection was a miracle I'd learned to perfect.
But why are you so curious to know what I had done, what sin I'm guilty of, and why I had carried a baggage of guilt and self-hate for all those years?
If you'd met me then, would you have helped me put down the luggage before asking where I came from and why I reeked of sin?
Oh I forgot. Your hands are carrying baggages too, sorry to bother you with mine.
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Social media is the new post office for suicide letters— one night I wrote God a letter, "Teach me to love you, with all the hate I feel inside", but they say to use oxymorons in prayers is to pray without faith; because the blessings of God has no sorrow, though it's hard to not sound bitter sweet when you've mastered the art of coating sadness with a beautiful smile.
I'd been nailed to some bloody cross! And no "bloody" is not a curse word. "...but cursed is any man who hangs on a cross", the Bible says.
Today I look at the holes in my hands— where the nails had pierced and it's healing; is that a good thing? Or it only makes me a new target for hurt.
I fear it makes a better target for new wounds, so often, I regurgitate my old poems on Facebook and Instagram, but my taste buds seem unable to sense pain and my mouth has forgotten how to chew on hate.
I have quickly forgotten the taste of guilt.
By 5:30am, I wipe the bathroom wall and the memory of last night fades away with the stain.
I think my heart has learned to beat without beating itself; is this its way of staying safe, is it afraid of falling again or is this what healing feels like?
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