The Last Laugh.

I write.
I write about the stories of 2 am tears and drained eyes at late hours; about the thoughts that refuse to wash away with the torrents that come raining down my face; about the stars up there which once upon a time twinkled upon me, as if they wished to come down and descend onto our earth – but later realized that they’re better off where they are. They were smart enough to fathom that even though things looked beautiful from afar…everything was uglier up close.

I cry myself dry as I write away my agony, downing my misery in magnums of alcohol until my lips are numb to the taste of the last remaining drops from the now-empty bottles. I surrender myself to the pain that threatens to engulf me, as I cry myself dry at the same spot I’ve been faking a smile every single day.

I write.
I write about the memories. Distant…fading.
My parents died in a car crash when I was only a few months old. My mother had shielded me from the full force of the impact, giving up her life so I could live mine. I don’t remember anything about them, and at times it becomes difficult to recall their faces from old photographs, which once-upon-a-time, were imprinted in my memory. The newspapers had called me a “lucky survivor” then; but now, it doesn’t feel that way. My life, my story – the seventeen years of my miserable existence – have been spent living inside the cold confines of one foster home or another. I never spent enough time in one place to ever have a single friend or confidante…until this year. But I guess that was what was best for me; because I learnt the hard way, how heart-wrenching it feels when the person you’ve come to trust the most…walks out on you. All I have is the words on paper I’ve learnt to cherish, books being my only companion in this world where I don’t belong.

I still write.
I write about the feelings I cannot explain; about the words I said and the words I didn’t and the words I said too early or too late; about the what-ifs and the what-could-have-beens and the what-have-I-dones. I write about whether love is an illusion – a trick played on a naïve mind…or whether love is comfort – a home to come back to. The thing is, I don’t know. I believe love is the vulnerability I feel, now that my heart is wrung and shattered. I had worn my heart on my sleeves, and now it is ripping me apart. It is the broken pieces that dig deep into my skin, the shards leaving wounds on my body.

I write.
I write about her.
I write about spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven, then secret dates and sneaking out. I write about snowflakes and how she would lightly brush them from my lips, as she would lean in to kiss me on the snowy evenings I walked her home on. I write about movie dates and candlelit dinners, slow dances on rooftops and starry nights. I write about how in those few months she became my favourite obsession, about how she made me feel…alive. With her, I felt like I belonged, and before I could even admit it to myself, I realized I had fallen in love. She was my ‘happily ever after’.
In my mind, we were a fairytale.

And I write.
I write about us – what we could’ve been, but never were. I write about the empty promises and about heartbreak – that throbbing ache in my chest that makes me feel hollow. It makes me feel that the very cells inside of me have come to despise my sepulchral subsistence. I feel as though I am unwanted; that I am nobody. I feel empty, like the air has been sucked from my lungs as I tumble in a free fall that opens into a deep chasm that nothing can escape from.
I feel trapped.

I desperately want to believe her lies – to find candour in her words that would hold me back from whatever it is that I need to be held back from. But I cannot get over those eyes that seemed to speak the truth when she told me she loved me. She said it was real. She said we were forever.
I believed her. I was blind.
I try to convince myself that I’m all right, but I know it’s just an empty lie that even I don’t believe.
My love for her is what is killing me.

Oh, I write.
I write about death. I write about suicide letters and how I battle between the overbearing temptation of Valium pills and new blades, and life. I feel I’m drowning in my overflowing bucket of despair, hung on the crucifix of sorrow, my life brimming with regrets and mistakes that consume my whole being and eat me alive.

This is the last straw.
I’m sick and tired of living the shallow life I have learnt to live.

I’m the fuel to my own fire.
I have reached my limit and I want to give up, but I know I cannot.

I am a paradox, a conflicted contradiction.
My parents…their death flashes before my eyes every time I consider letting go. They gave up their lives to save mine, and even after everything I’ve been through…I don’t have it in myself to give up just yet. The thought of ending my life once and for all scares me.
I feel crippled, but I must try for their sake.
For I am a mess.

But I still write.
I write to relive.
The pen, my sword, leaves scars behind itself as I write, inked forever on the paper that will probably never see the light of another day.
I bleed as I write. I bleed ink on the tattered sheets enclosed in the bound book that will yellow and someday turn to dust. I bleed away my agony to relieve myself from the anguish; the pain seeping through the pores of my skin and onto the paper as I try to find solace in my thoughts and my words. And I relive.
Relive…to relieve.
Relieve…to relive.

Every inch of me is covered by the bruises and gashes that words have inflicted upon me. But now, I have realized the simple truth that will keep me going:

Life’s a joke. Have your last laugh and get done with it.

x-x-x