#9: Midnight

I'm a person people remember

only when they're low and lonely

like a comfort food they want

only when they're upset

and I think that's pretty

that at least they seek me

when they have nobody.

 

Why is it all dark inside

that even my heart is bleeding black

and the oxygen is running out.

 

My head is by my toes

sanity under my shoes

and I still say to those

who chose to not be close,

"I'll see you for sho'!"

while I am mentally

circling a noose around my neck

in a silent morning or busy noon

as I'm watching the blood spots

from yesterday's head bangs

illuminated by the sunlight

all visible, on the plain blue wall

forming numbers of a clock

to remind myself when it's time

to boil water for a cup of black coffee.

 

People say, "It'll be okay."

And English grammar dictates

that will implies a promise

but why would anyone

make a promise so empty?

For the it means nothing,

it's there just to fill a must-have role

just like my existence

that's obligatory to preserve

but is empty.

We're both subjects,

without agency.

 

Or am I, in everyone's story,

an appositive

the unneeded addition,

and erasable element?

Even under a thousand lights,

an appositive

is never visible enough.

Neither highlighter on papers,

nor flashlights means anything

to shed a light on an appositive.

 

But when midnight comes,

truck lamps greet me

cheerfully, so boldly,

like the lamps on the ceiling

of the hospital room

I was born in.

Then the doctor handed me

to my smiling mother,

the light of my life.

 

You see

the random moving lights

they hit my blurry eyes

as I'm stuck in my place

with my limbs frozen

wrapped around midnight's arms.

Still, my eyes,

they see the falling stars.

2021, June 5.