Breathing

Yusrah M. Dzukogi

2 Publications

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So it’s February, but She still has these strain that makes her head crisp and heart soggy like the Kilimanjaro. She.’s not in the ghetto, but right now, it has no difference.

Well, you see,
Let me whisper to you these words of a young teenager who’s knocked out by the charm of anxiety while he has thousands of glints on his back, knocked out by the flack of society, and now home isn’t really home.
Home is where he could have all his dirty and diring scraps together without feeling like a grime, where he could dive into his unsettling thoughts and talk to them. Home is where he makes a parcel of the pretty n ugly.

Last November, She remembered how the hope she yearned for scorched the moon, masked with the night clouds alongside her wobbling heart, tripping back n forth, waiting for the moment to dash away. Hands trembling, lips charred, nose red, and eyes pile in the sea. Holding her breath as if it would bring the future right to her face, scanning and yearning for serenity, the one her dead soul left with, the one She once had close to her toes, the one that perceiving it was like making her tongue wet, the one that She always had in her dreams
Life is frail
Life is splendid
But then, how do you get rainbows without a little rain?

Just trying to make it to the next point, holding up to see the spring at its peak. Just breathe.