Flammable

I have a lot of fears, some of which I am still struggling to diminish.

Over time, they only seem to proliferate—

they spread like wildfire, setting ablaze all of me within reach.

And to this day,

despite the many years, the countless nights spent with a fist pressed to my mouth,

the many mornings I awake from under the covers murdering hours

as I attempted to rouse whatever strength I had left to fling my legs from the covers,

and heave myself up and out…

I still spend my midnights stitching my charred pieces together.

I have yet to find the right means to serve as an extinguisher,

ones strong enough, right enough to permanently have the flames doused,

to have them irrevocably perished.

Resultantly,

present time,

they are still so voluptuously licking off my layers and layers of plasters and bandages, stitches and fixes.

Even so, however, to my astonishment,

I continue to grow.

I continue to replaster and rebandage, restitch and refix.

I grow out of my tattered clothes, so I purchase new ones.

This time, ones that’ll be able to conceal more.

 

And as I grow,

in this queer state of constant disparages,

endless reconstructions,

in these macabre repetitive episodes of breaking and remodeling,

and as I wade through my days as if crawling out of a grotesque,

Burtonesque swamp lurking with creatures unimaginable…

 

My curiosity is piqued because call me a masochist,

but I look forward to finally be able to truly look into the eyes of the girl in the mirror.

 

Without disintegrating.

 

By,

Amira Jeffrey, Penang.

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