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dark empty room. the noisy fan covered me with a cold breeze coming right out of the window. and I reminisce about those times I could shed a tear for a moment. and I lay down my wary body being battered with expectation, high hopes, and guilty decisions. I try to bring me back those moments I could cry. that whenever I feel pain, I cry. that whenever I get sad, I cry. and that whenever I feel guilty and stressed and mauled and forgotten and left alone—I cry.

I wanted to feel that feeling of shedding what seemed to be an endless flow of tears. I wanted to cry out of a painful song from my painful playlist. I wanted to cry as I wrote poems of agony and miseries. I wanted to cry when everything seems to be overwhelming. I wanted to cry whenever I feel again that sensation of being neglected.

I wanted to cry, not be mad

not be mad when things don’t go as I’ve planned. not be mad when things led me to disconnect myself from reality. not be mad when almost everyone push me to be. not be mad with silence, with solemnity, with peace—while thinking that all of it was being used to isolate me to die.

I wanted to cry, weep, yell, and scream—and be sad—and be sorry about being me and who did I become.

I wanted to shriek out of this darkness I was caged and was caged by my very own.

I wanted to be sad, not be looked like an overly exaggerated piece of sympathetic irrelevant shit.

I wanted to be heard, not blurred.

I wanted to be understood, not be pushed to anger.

I wanted to be needed and preferred and liked and cared for and wished for.

yet all that I wanted was an illusion of my tiny existence—nothing of relevance. trying to fit in a world that was not created for me—and accepting that nothing else has been done.