Surrender.

Standard

(i)

My mother keeps a record

of how many meals I skip.

In the past week, her tally marks

have totalled to thirteen.

Today, I force my dinner

down my throat. 

It tastes like memory loss. 

Also a lot like suddenly remembering

that I haven’t hugged my grandfather

in seven years. 

(ii)

I have learned how to breathe

under three layes of blankets

in a room with no ventilation.

I can feel my sobs in my stomach

and the light from the cellphone’s screen

hurts my eyes as I 

search the internet for tips

that help in forgetting phone numbers.

(iii)

I have suppressed the urge to

tear down every piece of poetry

or art stuck on my wall.

Instead I carefully peel off

the paper on which I wrote

your words and tear it to shreds.

Tomorrow morning I will

paint that cavity black

and draw a white flag over it

to mirror my defeat. 

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