They tell you to move on, to forget, to let go. But they never tell
you about the pain that will come with it. They never tell you about
the spitting of blood or the bruises on your skin. They never say
anything about the dying stars and the falling moon. They never
mention the guilt that fills your lungs. They tell you it'll be okay but
they never TELL YOU THAT YOU'LL HAVE TO GROW WITH THE
PAIN.
Do they miss me the way I miss them. Remember the road trips?
The board games we would all play. Do you remember the
pictures we took of the sunset? The pink lemonade we sold at the
park. Remember my pigtails and flushed cheeks. The birthday
parties and pillow fights. Do you remember dancing in the rain
and tucking flowers in my hair? Running down streets, scraping
knees, riding bikes. EIGHT YEAR OLDS DON'T FEEL PAIN THE
WAY I DO.
But everything is now a blur. And we try to get by without breaking
our hearts and crying over the same things over and over again. It
feels like we're nostalgic for the same ghosts and we're getting cut
on the same edges, chanting "i miss you, I miss you." under our
breaths. I THINK THE SAME STORIES WE USED TO DREAM OF
ARE THE ONES THAT KEEP US UP EVERY NIGHT.
We have to keep searching, keep searching for the same taste of
home we used to have. The lights are lit but the city is asleep. The
people are asleep even when morning has come...Our city isn't a
city of pain. We're the ones poisoned with pain. And it's put us all
to sleep. I HOPE WE WAKE UP AND TRACE THE
CONSTELLATIONS AGAIN.
BINABASA MO ANG
The Aden Grey Poetry Contest
PoetrySo Aden, for those who didn't know him, loved poetry. He was the one to get me into it. The first poem I ever wrote was for him, about him. This is something I meant to do a while ago but I kept avoiding painful memories. This is a poetry contest of...
