ataraxis

xxiv

Tonight, our house was loud. Alive.

The television was on.
The radio was playing a sad song.
My sisters were laughing.
My father was on the kitchen.
My mother was sleeping in their room.

Tonight, the house was loud. It was alive.

But in my room, it was dark and cold. But I was sweating and shaking and wishing for everything to stop. I wish to stop remembering. I wished to forget the bitter taste of it against my toungue and the willingness to heave the last breath that I could.

The house was loud and alive.
While I was drowning and losing the war no one knew about.

Tonight, the house was loud. The house was so much alive.

And I wish I am too.

xxiv: “alive and breathing, but dead”