i love this more than i love my mango tree

Maybe i do not know how to start this because i am too in love with the honesty of my lies.
all i can tell you about me is that i have taken too many things in without even losing any sleep,
but they tell me that i speak in another language, and laugh too much while asleep sometimes.
they tell me that i survived a fire when i was inside my mother’s bruised stomach but none of my six siblings remember me kicking, and they only found out i was alive when they saw my mother in the hospital bed holding me in her arms.

I have grown up as a branch of a haunted tree, and for the longest time i convinced myself that i loved everyone else more than myself. But when the war was over, the epiphanies turned into nightmares and i finally saw the selfishness in me. Its not that i loved anyone more than me, i just hated myself more than i could ever love anyone else.
The tree started to shake in the company of even the smallest wind, and the street lights stopped making the anxiety attacks disappear.

I do not eat mangoes anymore because they take me back to the times when we were all blind by their sweet taste, and the force of the hands that fed them to us.
My father’s hands remind me of the good days, but there is no amount of laughter that can sunshine the loss of happiness; tell me, how do i forget how they’ve carved a permanent tear in my mothers eyes, making her vision too blurred to see the white powder in my brother’s room, the hospital’s stench in my sister’s bones, the dead hope in my distant exhales?
Our dinner table hardly sees any love these days, and I do not remember the last time I touched him. I hate myself for caring so much. I hate myself for noticing the mangoes in the room that night when the walls were breaking down on all seven of us, and thinking–this, this is what i’m going to remember of this and the rest will be a metaphor.

I’m so tired of living this life, of breathing these breaths; i know they’re brand new every second but they seem centuries old. i am inhaling my ancestors’ exhales and they’re losing out on air with every tear that i shed. every thing is in ruins now, and not talking does not really seem like a big fucking deal. I don’t remember the first time my lips touched someone else’s and there is no beauty in that. i keep saying i miss you, but who are you? why are you hiding? why is my heart breaking so much everyday, and why does no one ever see it?
every key point, all the elements to make a better story out of this is lost on me. i am a surrender waiting on a miracle.

I don’t think this sadness will ever end, but i’m hoping for an unconscious forever tonight. please take me to an oblivion so far out, i wont be able to remember my own name. (whatever that means.) I’m too tired of asking for help with my smiles, afraid they’ll run away when they hear me screaming out of the windows. every fruit, every food is a curse; a debt i wont ever be able to repay. breathing seems like an ode to the thousand murderers brewing inside of my blood, but my mother’s eyes do not need anymore heartache to be displayed for everyone to see.

Sometimes, i can almost see their faces inside every teardrop of mine. they mock my hypocrisy, they whisper to my cheeks, “darling baby, i’m back. i love you. i missed you so much.”
these chokes are real and they’re burning my throat. they’re swallowing my roars and all i can do is stay put while they kiss me over and over again.

I ask myself, “how did i ever get here?”
But I think I already know.

I’m a surrender waiting on a miracle.

I am a surrender
waiting
on a miracle.

—  Mangoes, by lovinginpoetry.tumblr.com