12h • Share your Poems
HOLIDAY
I have been counting the days,
since that cold January morning,
waiting for December to finally arrive,
so I can finally float alone
in the green pasture,
riding on the edge of the sunset
and feeling something beyond this vast solitude
that, through tears, forms who I am.
That is why I write to you, so you may know
that you deserve more than a rustic scent at dusk,
more than eucalyptus and roses,
more than an "I love you" as empty as your interior.
You deserve a holiday,
a rest before the end of the world.
Dear self,
I write to you from that part so dark—
so dark that even in the sunlight, you cannot see me.
The void.
You call me by an untameable surname.
You paint me with goat horns,
frog legs, and the devil’s moan,
snake eyes, and ruthless fangs.
My foul breath fractures your lips
into pieces so broken that your words
end up crumbling
before they leave your mouth,
before they die on your tongue.
Above all things,
you continue to call me a villain.
I am pure solitude,
the only thing that remains at the end of it all.
The abstract figures that form your face,
that which makes the light within you flicker,
a bubbling of sensations, like a freshly opened champagne,
a pounding of emotions,
like a thief pushing at the door.
The sound wave that calls your name in the mornings,
the shadow that follows you in the puddles of your pillow,
the curtain that closes when you hide from life—
I am the air that cuts your cheeks.
The tasteless soup in the fridge,
the dirty death,
the rot,
the austere guitar,
the final case,
I am your lethal sentence.
You seek out people as a pillar of peace,
hoping to hold onto them should you lose your way,
hoping they bring you the box of memories if you happen to forget yourself;
you swear they will play you a melody at midnight if you cannot sleep.
But they leave you so alone, that only I remain.
And finally, you listen to me.
They ignore you as you pass,
they claim to love everything about you,
but why do they lie their whole lives
if lies only consume their fire?
They are the alcohol that poisons,
yet feels so good.
A digital world.
A perfect world.
They live in solitude,
yet they want to feel whole.
That is why they hate you.
That is why they forget you.
That is why they call you only when they need you.
Because they know that even on your holiday,
it will be you, ready to give your life
for one second of their glow.
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HOLIDAY
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