A Despondency I'd Like to Forget
I understand the absurdity of searching for you in my dreams but common sense
often contracts to make room for love. You see, I have thought so much
about the whining of a clock, but the wail of time is simply not enough
to cease despair. So, here I stand, a sunken sun waiting for a ghost
of a person. They say you can’t possibly mourn someone who is not dead
but I am a woman who has never known when to put things down --
I pick up what you thought you had lost, spilling my guts
to a town that only ever calls me a fraud, feigning a path paved in dirt.
I look at myself in the mirror now, and it shatters;
cloth-coloured, I clumsily try once again to suspend time
on the sleeping line of your caffeinated smile but I can no longer
remember the last time I wasn’t on the border of breaking
my body, all glue and repair. I am still the same girl, eaten by youth and finished
by memories both bloody and buried. Months ago, my mother dreamt of you too
but even in her dreams, you don’t speak to me. In the wake of that, I’ve slept
between night's rotten teeth; the memory of you
pounds heavy in my own mouth, grinding
against the inner cheek of a perpetual grief. This place I live in
is nothing more now than a closing casket, held loosely
by old springs and wooden slats. At present, the sun only sinks ever deeper
into the small suburb of my bed. In the quiet, I dream
of laundry lines drenched by rainstorms. Mountains upon mountains
of our clothes, soaked. The stench of death wafts through an open window,
but I remain — trapped — in between the tight lips of a city,
doubling as a mistress. She slinks naked in the darkest corner of my room,
flashes me a boastful smile, as if to remind me that you are hers, and hers alone.
often contracts to make room for love. You see, I have thought so much
about the whining of a clock, but the wail of time is simply not enough
to cease despair. So, here I stand, a sunken sun waiting for a ghost
of a person. They say you can’t possibly mourn someone who is not dead
but I am a woman who has never known when to put things down --
I pick up what you thought you had lost, spilling my guts
to a town that only ever calls me a fraud, feigning a path paved in dirt.
I look at myself in the mirror now, and it shatters;
cloth-coloured, I clumsily try once again to suspend time
on the sleeping line of your caffeinated smile but I can no longer
remember the last time I wasn’t on the border of breaking
my body, all glue and repair. I am still the same girl, eaten by youth and finished
by memories both bloody and buried. Months ago, my mother dreamt of you too
but even in her dreams, you don’t speak to me. In the wake of that, I’ve slept
between night's rotten teeth; the memory of you
pounds heavy in my own mouth, grinding
against the inner cheek of a perpetual grief. This place I live in
is nothing more now than a closing casket, held loosely
by old springs and wooden slats. At present, the sun only sinks ever deeper
into the small suburb of my bed. In the quiet, I dream
of laundry lines drenched by rainstorms. Mountains upon mountains
of our clothes, soaked. The stench of death wafts through an open window,
but I remain — trapped — in between the tight lips of a city,
doubling as a mistress. She slinks naked in the darkest corner of my room,
flashes me a boastful smile, as if to remind me that you are hers, and hers alone.
About the Author
Nisa Lee is a 25-year-old Malaysian poet and editor who graduated with a Bachelors in English Language and Literature. After publishing her debut poetry collection Dreams, Delusions, and Made Decisions, Nisa has continued to craft new verses for her latest collection. Her works have also been featured in Nine Muses Review and are forthcoming in Sinking City Review. Beyond the page, Nisa is also a passionate advocate for mental health while risking her own at her day job teaching 6-year-olds how to read. You can find her on Instagram at @nrhanisarz.