I met her in the sizzling season
at the middle of the heat haze
when everything seemed painfully parched.
She’s a girl with a big, sticky head
and bulging, watery eyes;
And her wet, unkempt weeds for hair falls on and stains the arid ground.
Her brain is a swamp of thoughts
and they flood
or pull me into its black depths.
Her eyes see darkness;
Darkness that she describes to me
in ridiculously accurate details.
How could she, when there’s nothing to say in the absence of light?
She had words, still.
She hates the light. Oh, how she despises it.
Her hair, she wraps around her neck
when the clock strikes 2;
she would pull until she chokes
and I’d stop her from killing herself.
She would laugh then:
A searing, hideous guffaw.
She would say she’s just playing
and would never hurt herself.
She’d say she’s afraid of death.
Revived at 3, she would come to me with
deft fingers that
dig into my flesh heart.
She pulls at each vein.
And though there was pain,
it’s not enough to kill.
I welcomed her in, aghast at myself
as bloody emotions spill
messily on the dry soil.
She’s a summer’s mirage.
Vanished when the first drop of rain brought familiar smells
on the surface of the earth.
I did look for her, but unwillingly, as I
know that it would hurt looking at her face again.
But, she was my friend,
and at one point, my home.
Dry seasons mean meeting her as
she rises from the depths of my consciousness.
I welcome her in and sometimes I become her.
I don’t know her name and I refuse to give her one.
She’s an unlabeled existence
that my mind forgets
but in my heart was never gone.