Outlier

Are you still there?

I did something horrible, and not the
kind of thing where spilling blood
would be atonement. I don’t know
why I’m like this –

I’ll push all the boundaries, until there’s
nothing left to push – not for growth,
but I’ve only learnt to break things,
I’ll chisel at hairline fractures, not to
replace them with a bowtie inlay to mend
the cracking, but to drive the fracture
deeper, just to accelerate the process –

all things break,
why must I be patient for it to happen?

You have the oddest ways of putting me
to rout, you’ll offer me a cup of tea and
tell me about how Abell 78, a once
dying star came back to life because the
amount of material it shed was so dense,
it started fusing helium again, staving off
death just a moment longer.

“Just like people”, I’ll softly add.

You’ll nod, and remind me that our ribcages
are not where our sins go to fester, and that
I can still breathe.

I’ll swallow the air for four seconds,
hold it in for four seconds,
and exhale for another four seconds,
and hold for another four seconds –
just like you taught me, and some
of the guilt will dissipate, not all,
mind you, but just enough that
I can torment myself with guilt
instead of coming to a standstill.

Except this time,
no amount of controlled breathing
will alleviate the guilt or pain,
your palms where I would bury
my face would become a make-shift
casket, and you know how I feel about
burials.

There is nothing stopping me from
becoming a cloudburst and spilling
all my sins, except mercy –

we all have our boundaries,
and I always think twice about
whether this sin or the next will
be the one for you to realize not
all people can be helped.

I can’t be helped.