Hey, What’s the Price of His Coffin?
As a writer, she didn’t listen to music she took the notes of the lyrics. Word by word. High notes, low notes, no notes in her wallet. And of course just like any other writer she had her own ways of escaping the hedious world with the pen. Constructing a sentence to join it with another and it didn’t help much because her feelings were as dreary as the punctuations. Herself in suffocation was not anything more than the etcetera at the end of a paragraph.
One is for the last conversation she had with him one on one. The most painful memory—when she walked away and he never stopped her.
Two is for the impromptu. And she didn’t stop him because her lips were dead and her eyes took in all the words, boiled them, and gave them back with tears. Fears. And all he could do was cheer.
Three, no she never thought she’d ever be free. See, before him she lived in the laxity of freedom. Then he came. And she wasn’t good at biology yet it was crystal theirs was a prison because she was everywhere in his brain cells.
Four was their break up exonerated with fog. When they kissed everything became hazy and only his eyes were on focus. Or maybe love is blind, but between them he was the guy with spectacles. Call it combating thoughts without a single sparkle.
Five. The strings of question like bees in a hive. She was pregnant for him. He was in the verge of tears and felt queasy. So she regretted why she raised her legs so high and now all she does is bow calling for the Son of the Most High.
Six was when she had everything to fix. The sun and the shadows in the dark. A new shelter in her exile. Some part of her abode as a new mum just at sixteen. Him not wanting her was the beginning of her wanting herself.
Seven, she constructed a new heaven. With a progenitor’s soul somehow her future was too bright and she needed sun glasses. He blocked her on WhatsApp and now he’s going to search for her on Google; call it power of the pen!
See, she’d count one to seven on the many reasons why her life was not straight, like the curves in eight. Go to nine and nine years later her life is all fine. No one to call ‘mine’. Her daughter will never be next in line, at least not with men; oh, sorry, grown up boys. She was the girl that laughed all the time and yet the same that cried herself to sleep. That was before. She sabotaged her loner self, built bridges instead of walls and gave her soul a permanent smile.
One thousand drops of tears later, her life is perfect. A mother of one. Education. A thrilling career like an everyday medication. The guy that abandoned the teenager girl; aah, we talked about the drunk that has lamentations as his favourite liquor. And thanks to drugs, recently he couldn’t help but smile at his ex and his daughter, an epitome of beauty, as the physician’s decrepit words dawned on him: “We are sorry sir; due to post varicosities, you are not in a position to sire a child of your own.”
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