Still… Poem by beast noor

I grew up asking where is he,
the way you ask where is the sun
when the room goes dark.
He was there. He just never looked back.
There was a boy with spike shoes
and a van full of watching eyes
and a mother with a wiper
and a brother who said
I don't know, they just fight all the time.
I was eight. I learned to defend myself first
and grieve the rest later.
.......
Then lockdown came and took everything sideways.
One and a half years crying for my mom
through walls that smelled like someone else's home.
I came back.
My little brother didn't.
That's a door I haven't figured out,
A regret that never came out.
Seventh grade, a fractured hand.
Eighth grade, one good year, one good friend
a great company, great teachers teaching how to look ahead,
but that one good friend
who later taught me what betrayal
feels like in the middle of a sentence.
Ninth and tenth I stopped telling people things.
I kept the worst parts in my body instead.
I survived anyway. Alone. Entirely alone.
I think that deserves to be said out loud.
.......
Now he has gold medals
and a great voice,
a great physique
and also my back full of knives he borrowed from me
and never returned.
I watched him from across the room today.
He didn't notice I was quiet.
I didn't need him to anymore.
That's not nothing. That's called arriving.
I am sixteen and I have a blog
and a NEET dream
and a very specific list of things
I have survived without anyone's help.
The list is long.
I'm still adding to it.
.......
Anyway.
It is April.
I asked for Chhole bhature in December.
I asked for dal chawal for ten days.
She made khichdi.
It is already one thing now.
You cannot separate it.
This is also grief.
This is also my life.
Both are valid.
And feeling cute to see my life and saying it out loud
what the fish! is going in and out …