Yesterday, I hid the sun underneath my tongue
because I was afraid to see daylight. I wanted
its taste to incinerate my throat
till I could no longer speak
because every time I uttered words, I hurt.
[ The pain hurts, Mother ]
I can't see light because hope is light
and light is bright so bright it hurts my eyes.
See, I cry every time I see windows glistening with joy.
Perhaps you haven't noticed, but every morning I hide under my sheets,
I twitch and flip as you open the curtains. I don't want to move. I'm a pacifist, I want peace; neutrality with my bed-room and the outside of my room, that means I need to stay-in.
So yesterday, I made a pact with the night. She said that she would make the pain go away, that I would feel no more strain within my vocal cords, and that someday I would be able to speak my heart out. So as our pact, I hid the sun underneath my tongue, later I found out that its daylight just as my hope and my faith were one, yet one and I got along like two halves of a split-up lemon, and even still, its taste was like a not meant to be couple when they are separated by distance, sour but medicinal.
Mother,
it's alright
I made a pact because the night was right;
the blues are gone,
but don't cry..
I hid the sun and all I see- it's me,
someone who someday will find her other half
underneath her tongue. . .
