Fill the void

Photo by Madeleen Saguid/THE FLAME

INSIDE ME, everything exists, like lousy tenants I cannot seem to kick out. And likewise, within places I have stepped foot in are remnants of me. My bodily fluids or my laughter replay inside the tenants’ minds. I wonder if it is as crowded over there as it is in me.

My presence clamors to be isolated from the small spaces left; from the debate on who should get the few candies lying around or from the childhood friend group suspiciously deciding on whether I should join their afternoon.

There is comfort in remaining hidden, for being seen comes with fear of the tenderness I risk breaking with every mark I make. The warmth of my seat that burn anyone who sit after me, and the dents I would leave in seamless sheets. 

Whatever void is left deserted, I end up seeping into, like water underneath door crevices. I never wanted to intrude that way. But maybe, I was meant to. 

In the air, the smell of an unfamiliar fabric conditioner lingers, and I will never truly know which shirt it comes from, like the random balls of fur suddenly appearing from an old dog you could no longer remember the bark of.

Somehow, they leave parts of themselves you will find hard to recognize, yet easy to accept as a part of you. 

Everything is inside me, shaped irregularly, yet filling up voids I never knew I had. And as the mountains transform into specks in the sky, a wider view of the scenery greets me. 

Everything is still shaped irregularly, unfamiliarly, touching each other slightly and taking up space. But somehow, like lousy tenants, they always fill the void. F

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