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Writer's picturePepa Peeters

i used to...

i used to love jumping

from the rickety wooden boat, into

the marine blue water, that spiralled into an infinite hole of murky space.

yet there were always rays of white light that filtered through

the ripples on which i drifted,

as if a diamond was hiding beneath the blanket of darkness,

peeking out,

tempting me to fill my lungs with air

and plunge down to search for it.


i used to love riding

on a tiny scooter that chugged along

narrow, run down roads that were sown in between the rice paddies.

every turn, every race downhill, was a shot of adrenaline

and i felt like the ultimate rebel when i didn’t cling onto

my mum’s dresses like i was supposed to.


i used to love waking

up to my mother’s voice in the morning

or her touch on my shoulder, dragging me out of the depths of sleep.

not worrying about how stupid i might look, and wearing

whatever clothes were at the top of the pile,

oblivious to other people’s opinions.


now,

i know i won’t ever get into the ocean with the same certainty,

certain i’ll ever feel land beneath my toes again,

and won’t sink to the

watery graveyard down below.

i won’t ever stare into the infinite block hole and not imagine

a starving great white, jaws wide open

and ready to devour me and everyone in the water with me.


now,

i can’t get on a motorbike

without hearing my mother’s yell to hold on,

that one evening we were rammed into the burning concrete,

where my blow was cushioned by the embrace of my mother,

the crack of her ribs.

without thinking every twitch beneath is us once again crashing

in slow motion, ultimately ending in excruciating pain.


and now,

i can’t help but stare at nothing in the morning,

and convince myself today will be the last day i see

my mother, my friends, and everyone i’ve ever cared for,

as if they too will be wiped out of sight.

i can’t help but see normal, everyday activities

as my definite end,

and then for there to be nothing afterwards,

just shards of pain and empty spaces,

and i’ll be stuck like that for the rest of time...






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1 Comment


Betsy Parks
Betsy Parks
Dec 18, 2020

This is in response to your beautiful work....i used to....some very powerful images..roads that were sown in between the rice paddies,

my mother's voice in the morning, or her touch on my shoulder,

Where the blow was cushioned by the embrace of my mother...

Such lovely images thatit surprises me the now...and why you will be ...stuck like that for the rest of time..why does " now " negate all tbose beautiful images?


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