Words || Jennifer Nguyen
I come alive midnight. I leave my room. Hard boil three eggs. Cool them. Then forget. I am engrossed in writing a story where the main character is a dead cat, only, they don't know it. Only everyone else knows it. Only I know it. Only the big, black spider that's climbing down the central heating chute in front of me knows it.
I am overeating these days. On purpose and not. I blame stress. Stress blames me back. The cycle is vicious. The supermarket closing hours are vicious. I am reading a book where my mother tongue is perfectly woven into the story. I am jealous of how a word can be held in a mouth without it slipping away. Given life with every breath. Muscled into existence.
Tonight, the red moon melts like a burning photograph. I mistake boredom for restlessness. Scroll through social media liking things I don't really like. Affirm my presence in what little ways I can at 4 a.m.
It's raining a lot this winter. Yesterday, in the middle of a flash flood I remembered to bring the bins out front in and found a baby bird half-drowned, abandoned by its parents. My therapist says I have the habit of mistaking loss for something recoverable. I stay awake mourning a love that started and died before it was even born, seemingly, all on its own. I stay awake and cry, wondering if anyone ever came for the bird. My therapist says it's good to give things a name, that way we can confront them, get angry at them, then forgive them. But I never listen to my therapist. I don't like naming things I am afraid of. I hold them close and hope they don't mind. I am always holding them close. I don't mind.
Somehow, it is now, always, suddenly 6 a.m. The house wakes. I go back. Leave a note, saying: Please do not eat my eggs. I will eat them when I wake up.