By Anirudh Akella
I am my own worst critic,
the voice in my head relentless and unforgiving in
ways I'd never tolerate from another person.
It takes the smallest triggers, and
spins them into entire narratives about self worth.
My mind is a strange place,
leaping from the mundane
to the existential in the space
of a single breath,
landing on cruelty rather than kindness
when it comes to myself.
Sometimes I catch myself
thinking things I'd never say out loud. Like how-
I can't stand it when somebody smokes cigarettes
Not because of the cancer,
but because of the reminder - My company will always be a coping mechanism
masquerading as comfort for them.
I can be somebody's comfort,
but never their choice.
But on the off chance I am chosen,
it is because of a craving,
and cravings never equal care.
People only care for themselves,
they only want me when they're hurting,
only when there is ache.
Like the cigarette,
I could be everything they reach for and
still mean nothing once they exhale.
There are mornings when I catch my reflection and
wonder how I look because,
mirrors have never been kind to me,
so I rarely look into one,
except on the days I am handled with care.
Days when someone asks me how I'm doing,
and probes me beyond the small talk of "I'm okay",
when their voice doesn't hurry past my silences,
or slam brakes upon my ramblings.
Days with gentle touches,
understanding gazes and
heartfelt smiles…
On such days,
the light falls a little differently,
such that even I
can find the shades of hazel
hidden in the brown of my eyes.
Normally the mirror is just silence and silvery stillness,
but when the world shows me a little love,
I swear the mirror hums a tune
that seems quietly gentle.
When the darkness settles in,
when I'm alone with just my thoughts,
that's when my mind wanders to permanence,
to what happens when all the validation fades…
When I die, I will be burnt, but
I'll ask if I can have a grave instead,
because ashes are discarded in rivers
or forgotten in urns, but tombs?
Those are adorned with flowers bought in stores, and
leaves that form the shade of trees.
People truly die,
not when they're dead, but
when they are forgotten.
Perhaps I want to see who will keep me alive,
who will hold my absence in their chest.
I crave the warmth of memory
over the grandeur of a legacy, so
forgive my audacity
when I choose the grave over the pyre.
It's just a place to hold the flowers, smiles and tears
shed in my memory.
These are the voices in my head,
the ones I've finally decided to stop hiding.
The thoughts will always come uninvited,
like rain with clouds,
like shadows at dusk.
But maybe the kindness we offer ourselves in spite of them,
the tenderness we choose
when our minds turn cruel,
maybe that's the only rebellion
that matters - defy ourselves, so
that we may save ourselves.