I’M GONNA MISS YOU

Whenever tragedy hits me in the core, a montage flashes before my iris.
I see faces and bodies.
I see resurrection of stories and memories.
I see stitched skin ruptures,
marks outstretch,
the inhumed wounds exhume.
I think of my grandmother, my grandfather.
I think of a Japanese sun, and my father.
My fist trembles and squeezes so tight, just to feel something else.
I crumple their remnants in the air, and my hands moist but my eyes remain to be a desert.
I shake my brain to see if they’re gonna fall from it but nothing happens.
Their bones are with me, bits under this skin, and bits between these letters.
The hunters hunt for those kind of bones.
They scan me and they examine me, frequently.
I managed to hide. But now, they have come again.
They scan me, they examine me.
I poke my desert eyes, attempting to find an oasis to flush the montage that will soon flash before my iris, but nothing happens.
They hit me now in the core, they hit me some more, and a montage flashes now before my iris.
I see faces and bodies.
I see resurrection of stories and memories.
I see stitched skin ruptures,
marks outstretch,
the inhumed wounds exhume.
I see my grandmother, my grandfather.
I see a Japanese sun, and my father.
I see myself.

For their bones are within me, and I am them.

The hunters are always prepared with their hooks, and they can now smell the scent of success.

I shrunk, I curled.

I’m bruised in hues.

As my lips quiver, I render my breath to say these last words to you,

I’m gonna miss you.