by Cally Lim
It is not your fault, my child, but I have a confession:
This whole thing is increasingly an irrition on us both.
If only I continued to respect your dying wish, preserved
clean like a powdered corpse. And now blissful and neglected
sleep is impossible for you. Unnatural nostalgia sours us awake,
an insomniac envy of others I deemed more passionately sensitive
since young. We were never ideal models of ourselves. But
this is none of your fault, truly. It is mine, healing emptiness
with emptiness.
© Cally Lim
Cally Lim (she/her) is a Singaporean novice writer trying to make the world a better place with her prose and poems and fantasy worlds. You will also see her zoning out like a typical literature, mythology and psychology nerd, sprinkling fandom and queer references in her poems. Her IG is @sh_ttysoliloquy and her Substack is Studies in Soliloquies.
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