Anatomically Yours

Dear You,

This should’ve been written years ago.

But like everything else in my life,

it got stuck between compulsive procrastination and the excuse of perfection.

My closet is full of drafts I never sent,

my shelves are full of notebooks I never read out loud,

and my brain, 

well, my brain is basically an architectural nightmare.

Too many rooms, not enough space.

So here it is.

The one letter that survived the crash, defied the denials.

When I was four, they told me not to write with my left hand.

Apparently, the Gods don’t like left-handers.

Imagine telling a child the Creator of the Universe

who doesn't hold biases and loves all equal

is offended by which hand he holds forks with.

So they made me switch to the right.

And I’ve been writing wrong ever since.

That’s how it started.

With correction.

Everyone was busy fixing my handwriting

while ignoring my words.

The corrections were constant

like energy

always there, the only difference was in forms.

Switch your tone, it’s too sharp.

Switch your silence, it’s too rude.

Switch your dreams, they don’t pay.

Switch your truth,

because truth makes people uncomfortable.

So I switched.

Hand. Dreams. Truths. And spine.

Until one day, there wasn’t enough left to switch.

And then, one day, I found a microphone.

And strangers.

And suddenly, the same sarcasm that got me scorn and rebuke,

the same tongue that earned me slaps,

was getting applauses.

The witnesses called it humour.

I call it survival with an outrageous audio system.

But this letter isn’t about applause.

It’s about honesty.

And my honesty is this:

I don’t know if you laugh at my jokes

because they’re funny,

or because you recognise yourself in them.

Maybe that’s what loneliness really is

a virus that spreads only when you admit you’ve caught it.

The only thing that multiplies when you share it.

Happiness is just the group therapy.

So Dear You,

whoever you are, wherever you’re sitting tonight

if you’ve been carrying unsent words around your skull,

if you’ve been hoarding letters like forbidden desires,

this is your permission slip.

Because tonight, mine finally loaded.

And if you’re listening,

that means it has finally reached exactly where it was meant to.

Not with heart, not with hope

just with scar tissue, sarcasm,

and what remains of my vocal cords.

This is just a letter. 

Not a story where I am the protagonist, antagonist, or the hero's third cousin. 

A letter for a document of proof, 

because corporates have taught me, if it's not documented, it didn't happen.

So let this letter be a proof.

I lived. I bled. I wrote.

And maybe, proof that in a world obsessed with hearts,

a brain can still break louder.

- Yours, scribbling in the cracks of sanity, A Someday Somebody