by gabrialla hinkkanen
edited by amy li and alloe mak

the home i once knew is becoming a haunting, vacant spell. empty halls murmur of bygone windchimes, peeling paint releases plaintive echoes into the hearth. i hold tight to the room and think of my mother.

am i doomed to live fiending, unsatisfied? how long will i sit here, looking at her old photographs, before i must move? there must be a limit to how much time i can kill in limbo. the muses will soon give up on me.

their warm light appears in slivers between blinds and gentle lines on dirty carpet. i chase the rays and am left aimless, staring at the source.
white knuckles clutch to every thread of uncertainty within my reach. eudaimonia will not exist for me; only a slow, unending waltz into the sorrow of a mother; i sway in preparation for this ending.

i know of nowhere else to go but this empty husk—this familiar friend that has no more to offer me. must i rely on chance, and her alone, to indulge me in what i cannot myself satiate? she, a fickle matron deity—the puppeteer of a cruel jest choreographing a crescendo that could lead to naught.

through my teeth i beg please, Mother, i think i can love you, allow me to see what is behind this curtain ahead of me, i must know what it is hiding. i will not bring myself to move until i do.