MAKILING
There’s a poem caught in the hollow of your throat, but he is no longer interested in what your body has to offer. Take a knife. Kneel beside your bed frame. Drag it across the wood. You are now fifteen and three cities away from English teachers who write absolutely brilliant! on the topmost corner of your yellow pads. You ought to get it right.
In the poem, there’s a boy, a girl, and a ghost. The boy does not believe in ghosts; the ghost does not believe in ghosts, either. But the girl takes the boy by the hand and leads him through a thicket of trees, nothing but paper and pen in his pockets, and begs him to listen. Don’t you hear her? She’s calling out to you. In the heart of the forest, the boy looks at the girl in her sand-white skirt, ears perked up to the silence. I do.
There’s a poem caught in the hollow of your throat, but there needs to be minor changes. Only idiots believe in ghosts in this day and age. Say it was a love poem. Say you wrote about a boy and a girl who are separated only by the walls of a fifty-year-old dorm, their breaths steady and similar as they sleep. He dreams of her palms and their warmth on his cheek; she dreams of the letter she keeps in her desk drawer--Do you miss home? May I take you there?
Sigh. Lift the knife. Close your eyes. In the other beds, your roommates dream, and you know: you will not finish it. Maybe you’ll try again tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow after that.
Climb onto the top bunk. Kick the thin, rumpled sheets around your legs. The mountain chill seeps into your skin. Let your hands trace the name you carved onto the ceiling, its letters thin as a wrist. Hum it, like a prayer. Outside, in the dark, the silence of the night waits. Listen. Listen.
In the poem, there’s a boy, a girl, and a ghost. The boy does not believe in ghosts; the ghost does not believe in ghosts, either. But the girl takes the boy by the hand and leads him through a thicket of trees, nothing but paper and pen in his pockets, and begs him to listen. Don’t you hear her? She’s calling out to you. In the heart of the forest, the boy looks at the girl in her sand-white skirt, ears perked up to the silence. I do.
There’s a poem caught in the hollow of your throat, but there needs to be minor changes. Only idiots believe in ghosts in this day and age. Say it was a love poem. Say you wrote about a boy and a girl who are separated only by the walls of a fifty-year-old dorm, their breaths steady and similar as they sleep. He dreams of her palms and their warmth on his cheek; she dreams of the letter she keeps in her desk drawer--Do you miss home? May I take you there?
Sigh. Lift the knife. Close your eyes. In the other beds, your roommates dream, and you know: you will not finish it. Maybe you’ll try again tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow after that.
Climb onto the top bunk. Kick the thin, rumpled sheets around your legs. The mountain chill seeps into your skin. Let your hands trace the name you carved onto the ceiling, its letters thin as a wrist. Hum it, like a prayer. Outside, in the dark, the silence of the night waits. Listen. Listen.
About the Author
Bella Majam (15) is a student at the Philippine High School for the Arts. When she's not writing, she can be found printing cat stickers or curating Mitski playlists. You can find her @beelaurr on Instagram.