anatomy of anxiety
pull. shove. crash
anxiety. bursting wide open
thrusting inside. into a wreck
shallow breath. a jagged whirl.
your head. an awful drip
cesspool. pouring over body
can I pull away the trail of my guts?
first-aid act before your entrails bursts
can I throw away the nerve of my brain?
keeping it out of a dumb girl’s reach.
yet I was wet with spit
my body is not a goddamn wasteland
my head is not a fucking sewer.
anatomy of unwanted corpse
(for disabled people murdered by their own caretakers)
I sometimes wonder about the sensation of seeing your parent
In your murderer’s eyes. Of hearing their familiar voices. The same
hand that supposed to embrace you, now hurling you towards death
sentence. Your chirp of protection turns itself to assault. The betrayals runs
thicker than your blood at your last moment,
a grave injure.
I wonder as they take turns on glimpsing from the eyes of your murderer.
Listing out the cost of keeping your breath in this world. Weighing pressure
building up on your murderer’s shoulder before they raise their own hand to
pull your soul away. As if they emerge as victims when their hands are stained
with your blood.
As if you’re a footnote, dismissed.
As if your death is as natural as breathing.
Repeated image of violence flesh in vivid colors, splashing like blood in my head.
They are closer to memory more than ever. It takes one bad turn, one
unwanted caretaker at the end of the lane when you’re disabled. It takes
one bad turn.
It takes one bad chance.
anatomy of an awkward marionette
(a passing girl, autistic edition)
If you ask me to tell you about myself, I would choke
on my own spit. When you spend your life as a
failed attempt of a mirror reflection, you can’t afford
the privilege to see your reflection flashes on the mirror.
There are some sights that are never meant to be reflected back.
There are some sights too foreign to be seen naked in broad day light.
It was a long time ago since I saw the girl with her swaying twintails,
taking an overly-eager step with her chin up. Her hands dance a careless,
marching tune, and her big eyes glinting like a new glass, ready to be filled.
She would think about the world as foreign and brave and too brand new,
unaware of invisible threads that would bind her like an awkward
marionette she is now. I miss her terribly, quietly. But I’d keep her
at the safest place, hidden from sights.
Ireisha Anindya is an emerging writer, editor, and translator based in Jakarta, Indonesia. Writing and messing with words, for her, has always been her way to express and share her own thoughts. She bears a stomach prone to lurching and a heart prone to a frenzy rhythm. Or perhaps that’s just the side-effect of living in a world clashing with her autistic mind. She can be reached at her twitter, @_finalgirl.