What had occurred before the climax was all hidden behind the humidity of an early Autumn's mirage. The constant transparency of the auditory crunching of coffee - that of a potato chip in the midst of swiveling up into moist mush - leaves had soon translated into the disconnection within my own mind. There's bits and pieces of what occurred during that sector, such as the constant worrying of not getting into my dream school, not being able to distinguish the numbness of reality, and if anything I felt or acted was completely counterfeited by who-knows-what. The constant potential occurrence of my soul being completely demolished over feeling unnecessarily numb or agitated over nothing.
Continuous trembling of my toes against the sole of my shoe; repeatedly tapping my nails against my albino desk top. I wondered if it would ever pause... for even a second.
"That would be enough." I told myself
"Would it really suffice?" I tell myself.
I started opening about feeling empty to a couple sincere friends I had, and after months of bragging about getting help, I reached out to my school counselor. I remember being fidgety about emailing her... I remember looking in the mirror by my bedside table too, and seeing how miserable my pale face was. Blood circulation had risen to my brain, and illuminated my cheeks in peaches. But I told myself that I'm doing the right thing. Wrong. First session, I was sent home.
Devastated, my best friend reached out to me due to acting unusual... and not being able to keep a damn secret. After school had been dismissed, she came over to my place uninvited, just to console me. I appreciated it thoroughly. She went to the house by the dead end of my street, in which inherited a screechy-sounding white Maltese dog. She then hesitantly asked the owner if they were my mother. They weren't.
She had the wrong house.
However, she retraced her steps and knocked on my front porch. Covered in eksema around my eye sockets, and dry patches of tears, she was startled when she first laid eyes on me that day. Curiosity struck me when her fingers moved to reach the depths of her copper body bag; to my surprise, she had brought two books for me to read; one had featured Afgan culture, and contradictory metaphors, and the second one had a visual biography on the author, through poetry.
And then she showed me some of her own poems, and let me tell you. They were outstanding; I found it extraordinary how words could be so artistic depending on the way they're arranged. For a second, I favored it over drawing.
I was inspired to write as a coping mechanism, in place of therapy.
Live through my eyes; live through this transparency.
YOU ARE READING
Ebony Clasp
Poetry'Ebony Clasp' is a series of poems I've kept contained until now. The act of publishing this is basically lethal, as I'm voluntarily releasing all things I want to keep private... but, on the contrary, it's also a way of self-relief. I hope you find...
