I Don't Know Who I Am

[ry0un0suke]

Forty-eight autumns, counted so it is never lost. Look back and no one looks forward, not expecting to make it this far. How many now? More than four, maybe four. The numbers lose their meaning. On their desk, something as a reminder of their existence in the realm, scribbled messily into their journal. Maybe written near loved ones, their nose always stuck in a book, stuck in a journal writing about:
. . .
All things end, I can know, understand, accept, yet feel unhappy about this truth.
All things change, I can know, understand, accept, yet feel unhappy about this truth.
Why does it bother me so? Dying? Why does drastic change unnerve me so?
I am good, I swear, mother. Beholden to all You are and will ever be.
Yet summer turns into winter without warning and I am stranded.
Or summer is hotter than usual and the rivers dry up from a draught. It is not pleasant.

  
I am good.
I swear.
In acceptance, stubbornly, yet I accept-
and I am good, great, excellent,
without any crimes as he has said I
am innocent.
. . .
Mother, I do not ever want to lose him.
I won't accept it if it comes
and I beg You to take me and never him.
Never.
I will never match his light
great in all he does, that of the wheel itself and I
am too young.
Too young to handle that weight on my heart,
Mother,
it would kill me.
I would rather die than grieve him.
I am thinking about dying and loss
I cannot stop thinking about dying and loss
it is spring and I
CANNOT STOP THINKING ABOUT DYING.
. . .
I am going to die soon.
Not naturally, no...
Something will emerge from the dark's deepest crevices,
coil its tendrils around my throat,
strangle every plea from me
and leave nothing to mourn.
I am afraid... to leave my house.
I am afraid that I will never say goodbye.
I am afraid I'll be forgotten.
Nothing left to mourn
memories short lived and bitter,
who I am will fade in time,
my accomplishments too small to celebrate.
I will die before I make him proud-
truly proud
he will never be proud.
. . .
Mother...
...I am bad.
I wish I was perfect as he and worthy but
I am not.
Why must I be perfect?
Who said I should be perfect?
I think I should perfect.
. . .
I am afraid to write about You.
. . .
I am afraid to beg for my life.
I cannot look the end and not feel afraid.
I will plead to live
until my throat is rough and dry,
my eyes swollen, red.
Dying in the dark,
without a soul noticing I was missing.
-I am afraid
that nothing will soothe my heart.
Mother I am so afraid.
It chases me relentlessly.
I will die
or they will die.
And I must hold an impossible weight
I am too weak to carry.
Mother,
I-....