Time Check

 

8AM. I woke up feeling unusual. For the past years, mornings were different.
From my window, the rays of sunlight peeked, as if a voyeur, who wants to eavesdrop into my room. I pulled the curtains to the side and unhinged the locks to open the windows. I slowly pushed the panels out and opened the windows fully.
Now the room was filled with light and warmth from the sun. Particles of dust float in the atmosphere. I slowly folded my sheets and placed them on the piles of used clothes inside the laundry basket. Then I put on new sheets to the mattress where we used to lay, where we used to snuggle the whole afternoon, where you rest your head on my arm while you tell me stories which now I don’t know which ones are true and which ones are not. It was unusual. The scent of the fabric doesn’t blend with the scent of your perfume anymore. Not anymore.
For the past 1095 plus days, mornings were… different from this one…
10AM. I pulled out the drawers. There were bottles of wine, empty bottles of rum, half-full bottles of gin. I took them out, stared at each bottle, one by one like they were vials containing some sort of memory. There was one full bottle, the one I intended to open the day you pass the boards. Obviously, we – or I never had the chance to open it. Then there were empty bottles, I don’t know exactly how many there are. Maybe, they are as many as the times when I felt empty since the day you said you’ve had enough. I placed them in a paper bag which I would take out to throw into the trash. All of them, along with your letters containing paragraphs of lies you scribbled so nicely.
11 AM — We used to have breakfast this time. We used to sit opposite to each other while we talk about our plans. But now, I’m only having coffee which I should’ve had a long time ago to wake up from all the illusions I have always chosen to believe in.
Finally, I can get out of the house feeling every part of my body is normal. I can feel my arms without imagining that you’re holding it. I can feel my hands without feeling that yours are intertwined with them. I can feel like a normal person which for so long I have never been. I can feel that I am enough and I have had enough.

Time has healed every crack, every fissure, and every wound you have left. So it is time, to write this last letter to you.

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Scars

We lay on our backs, without the things that cover the mountains and the crevices, our faults and our soul’s openings. We stretch against the cotton sheets that felt too cold, and sometimes that felt too odd, because, the only things that are warm and familiar are the tendons and the ligaments of each other’s arms.  We collapse and we both share the thin air that was made for us both. And our palms glide in each other’s skin like we were born with the same complexity and fairness.

But we are both scarred.

You have childhood scars as I have my own. There was one, you said was caused by being burnt by a motor’s muffler. Another from tripping off a stone that had your knees several cuts.

But there are many more scars we do not even remember having. And there are more scars that aren’t seen, could not be touched, only felt. They are the faults we cannot see. Cracks that are hidden. Fissures that just lay there unnoticed.

There are scars that make you dislike the rain. The last time he kissed you was on a rainy night in June. He promised, that no matter how strong the storm could get, he will always be there to tuck you in his arms, to stay with you as the thunder claps its loudest. But then, he fell in love with someone else who loved to dance in the rain. And you were left on your own, outside, in the middle of the storm that there’s no stopping.

You iron your clothes carefully, without a single crease. How you fix your hair every minute. How you look at the mirror for an hour or two to make sure you look good before going out. And all because, you thought he left you because someone else was way good looking than you.

How you never sit next to the window on the bus, you never look at the mini-stop at the corner, and you never want to sleep with huge pillows, all because, you are scared of seeing him. You are scared of seeing memories of you and him together. Best to avoid the things that remind you of who you were around him.

There are scars that make you cringe every single time you hear his favorite song. Or how you wish you were deaf when someone mentions his name.

And there are deeper scars that make you who you are and have become unnoticeably a natural part of you. They are ones that warn you to stay still even when your heart is racing. The ones that hold you back. The ones that make you refuse to love and take it, each time it is given.

But now, we lay uncovered. With all our flaws exposed. Your own set of legs and thighs intertwined with mine. We share the same air and for once, our hearts beat in the same rhythm.

Darling, I tell you, you are scarred and all of us are. Memories may linger in every inch of you but we are all scarred and scars are only reminders of the past. They may or may not disappear, but I promise you, they all heal.

Don’t be afraid. You are scarred, but you are beautiful.