Short Lived



Taunting colours bleed through your beat up pink curtains, memories of a torn youth

Reds and blues to remind you of the bruises and scars that once scattered your body

Combined make purple, the taste of grape fresh on your mouth

Midnight is full of nostalgia of your lost life

Hidden between piles of unused notes,

Stuffed in the crevices of your bed,

A pillow too stuffed

An overflowing glass of water

The body bursting through the seams of a too-old sweatshirt that you keep with the excuse of "sentimental reasons"

Life for you remains the ragged cloth of that very sweatshirt.

Torn at its edges from too many washes in the laundromat that you hate yet for some reason continue to go to,

Faded and bleached because of too-strong detergents that smell like trash

Resurfacing in your never-empty closet like a repressed memory breaking free of its shackles

Its mere sight evoking an ever sickening feeling

Clinging tight to the scars and threads of an old life, like a child to its mother

You hold onto dust to nurture you

Grasping for strings of comfort to tie together the pages of an already lived life

To grow older is to rewrite a future ahead of you

But your ink is bled dry,

The pen weak at its tip,

And the clock is no longer ticking

Sana FathimaComment