08/09/2025
Ashes of the Living
Origins
The house sang in broken chords.
Love existed, yes—
but jagged,
bitten through with arguments,
stitched with apologies
that frayed as fast as they were spoken.
Mother clung with sweetness too heavy,
her arms vines that bound
as much as they comforted.
Father bore duty like a whip—
stern, devout, relentless,
measuring devotion in sacrifice,
weighing worth in obedience.
Four children were forged in that furnace:
one who left the world too soon,
one who fled across oceans,
one who stayed, kneeling to their needs,
and me—
the avoidant,
the one who slipped away,
who carved silence into a shield,
who mistook distance for safety.
The Fracture
I grew, but my roots never deepened.
Every dream sprouted, then withered.
Plans rose like scaffolding
only to collapse under hesitation,
under my own refusal to hold.
I blamed bad luck.
But the truth was simpler:
I could not stay.
I could not finish.
I could not breathe
within the walls I built myself.
Love came as fever—
burning hot by night,
ash by morning.
Bodies pressed close,
sweat silencing voices for an hour.
But permanence?
That was for others.
I was always the interlude,
never the epilogue.
The Leaving
Then came the years of flesh.
The city, a hunting ground—
nights thick with smoke and sweat.
Pills lit the neurons like fireworks,
powders drew thin white doors of escape,
and nameless lovers gave me glimpses
of heaven disguised as oblivion.
I worshiped at the altar of skin,
at the gospel of lust.
Obligations lay wrecked behind me.
Why chase ladders
when they only led to cages?
Why settle for duty
when ecstasy dripped
from strangers’ lips,
when God Himself
whispered chemical hallelujahs?
For a while I was infinite—
a star burning too fast, too bright.
Each climax eternal,
each comedown rehearsal for death.
And still I returned,
again and again,
to the ruinous paradise of the night.
The Return to Obligation
But the world demands its tithe.
Cooperation. Conformity.
Smile, shake hands, sign papers,
pay bills, nod politely.
I climbed, half-hearted,
into offices, into networks,
into the brittle choreography of belonging.
But my hands were slippery,
my heart elsewhere,
my eyes always flicking back to shadow,
where temptation mocked
the dull obedience of daylight.
So I played my part—
half-loyal partner,
half-son at the deathbed,
half-sibling, half-friend.
Always halfway,
never whole.
The Parents’ Decline
Now I watch them unravel.
Mother choosing dementia,
her smile wandering,
her eyes strangers,
her words looping like broken hymns
that still pierce me.
Father, rigid to the end,
stooped beneath the weight of duty.
His love—cracked and imperfect—
still pulses beneath the sternness,
still breaks with every sigh.
Together, tragic and tender,
sweet in their dysfunction,
a fire sputtering but not extinguished.
They will be split, inevitably—
by the theft of memory,
by the silence of a final breath.
And I stand helpless,
grasping fragments
before they vanish.
The Siblings
One gone forever,
a ghost haunting my dreams.
One gone across oceans,
their voice reduced to static.
One kneeling at the parents’ altar,
sacrificing self for their care.
And me—
the watcher,
the avoider,
the one who carries envy
and disdain in equal measure.
My Own Reckoning
I turn to my partner,
sleeping beside me,
warm, alive—
yet I feel the distance.
Why should he stay?
The sauna beckons,
the carousel of trysts spins,
muscle and wit chase flattery,
and age chases them all.
The lure is stronger than permanence.
I know it.
I would leave me too.
So I tell myself not to fight.
Why demand fidelity
in a world built on hunger?
I let the possibility of loss
sink into my bones,
pretending it doesn’t matter.
But it does.
God, it does.
The Street
And always—the streets.
Beggars crouched on corners,
palms stretched open,
eyes emptied but for need.
I see myself in them.
But for grace, I whisper.
But grace is fickle,
grace is fragile.
And I fear one day
my scaffolding will collapse completely,
and I will be the one
with nothing left
but an outstretched hand.
The Inheritance
This is what I inherit:
a family stitched with dysfunction,
a love that endured despite itself,
a lineage of fracture, loyalty, and loss.
And me—
a half-lived life,
dreams abandoned,
plans buried,
nights squandered on bliss and ruin.
It is not the legacy of children,
nor the permanence of hearth and home.
It is ashes.
But even ashes hold warmth.
Even ashes prove there was fire.
The Final Breath
So I breathe, for now.
Rise, for now.
Stumble forward—
half-built, half-undone.
I watch my parents fade,
watch love endure and fracture,
watch the world demand and punish,
while the streets whisper my name.
One day, their last breath will fall.
One day, my own will follow.
Between those two silences—
this is what I have:
This inheritance of ashes.
This fragile, unbearable life
