Listen. Listen: I’ve been here long enough to know that the night sky is the color of my feelings and a soft reminder that I am still alive, that the next day is creeping up already, that it still holds promise and bitter-lipped hope. I’ve learnt now that between my fingers, there are little whispering spaces I reserve for someone I haven’t met yet — the same spaces found in the hollowed cavity of my chest, in between each inhale and exhale, and in between each word, each blink, each tap on the shoulder. Listen: I know now that underneath my eyelids, there are no roses, no hydrangeas, no poppies. There is only grainy darkness and salt-water dewdrops. And under my tongue, there are only words — oh, so many words. Words rusty and faded, sentences lost, names forgotten, songs too sad to sing, and stories that still don’t know how to let themselves out. Listen, listen, listen. Drinking warm milk with honey will only help for so long — you see, when 4AM seeps into your room and crawls under your skin and down your back, there becomes a slurred rhythm that throbs inside the white of your bones; the same quiet rhythm of the sea, the wind and the voices you miss. By 5AM, they all sound the same to you, and by 6, you fold your knobbly knees and your thin, arms into bed, close your eyelids, and try your hardest to see them — the roses, hydrangeas and poppies blooming inside your ribcage, inside your heart. But you don’t. You don’t see them, you only see the rotting petals, the thorns and the wilting leaves — but listen, listen to me: one day you will see them, one day you will see them with trembling lashes and quivering hands, and with your eyes wide, wide open….❤
Beatriz Esmer 