If You Listen, You Won't Hear Me
by Iris H. Mauricio
I wake up in a dream where everything is in halves, split between shadows and what the light can see. Split between whispers and all the things I don’t want to hear. I’m staring at myself in a mirror, but I can’t read my own expression. It could be apathy. It could be tragedy. It could be the history of my family, unraveling.
I try to speak, but a fly crawls out of my mouth and rubs its legs together in prayer. It buzzes away humming the word of the Lord, and I am listless.
There’s no way out of this.
I try to speak, but a fly crawls out of my mouth and rubs its legs together in prayer. It buzzes away humming the word of the Lord, and I am listless.
There’s no way out of this.
“Where are your eyes?” my mother asks. “Don’t you see them?”
She’s in the kitchen, cooking. I can hear the splatter of oil, the scraping sound of the spatula against the pan. I can’t smell what food it is even though I can see the halo of smoke curling around her hair. She’s wearing what used to be her favorite nightdress, the one with the hole at the hem. She has her back turned to me. All I want is to see her face, but I know I won’t see anything there. Just a mirror, and my own reflection.
I reach out to touch her shoulder but find instead the hands of my father, closed into generous fists. They gravitate back to me, arcing meteors of discipline. Destruction with the best intentions. I daydream a conversation with my mother’s spine while I wait for them to land.
My continent breaks and I call her name, but when she moves to turn to me, I turn away.
She’s in the kitchen, cooking. I can hear the splatter of oil, the scraping sound of the spatula against the pan. I can’t smell what food it is even though I can see the halo of smoke curling around her hair. She’s wearing what used to be her favorite nightdress, the one with the hole at the hem. She has her back turned to me. All I want is to see her face, but I know I won’t see anything there. Just a mirror, and my own reflection.
I reach out to touch her shoulder but find instead the hands of my father, closed into generous fists. They gravitate back to me, arcing meteors of discipline. Destruction with the best intentions. I daydream a conversation with my mother’s spine while I wait for them to land.
My continent breaks and I call her name, but when she moves to turn to me, I turn away.
I wake up in a dream.
I’m in my bedroom, wading through dark floodwaters. All my things are afloat in pieces, bobbing up and down in the violent current. I’m looking for something, but I don’t know what. It’s something important. It’s something I lost a long time ago. It’s something I don’t know if I’ll ever find again.
My hands sting. They’ve been scratched by splinters, the jagged ends of what’s left of my bed. They brush up against seaweed and I’m cold. The waters keep rising. My feet have lost sense of the floor. I swallow water and it feels like pills sliding down my throat.
I’ve forgotten what moment this is. I think it’s history, coming undone in my head. Trying to drown me since I made the choice to bury it. Trying to drown me because I won’t admit how much it hurts. Something snags my leg, and I’m dragged under. Above me, the surface of the water. Beyond it, the ceiling, moving like shards of glass.
I think about death and being its daughter.
I’m in my bedroom, wading through dark floodwaters. All my things are afloat in pieces, bobbing up and down in the violent current. I’m looking for something, but I don’t know what. It’s something important. It’s something I lost a long time ago. It’s something I don’t know if I’ll ever find again.
My hands sting. They’ve been scratched by splinters, the jagged ends of what’s left of my bed. They brush up against seaweed and I’m cold. The waters keep rising. My feet have lost sense of the floor. I swallow water and it feels like pills sliding down my throat.
I’ve forgotten what moment this is. I think it’s history, coming undone in my head. Trying to drown me since I made the choice to bury it. Trying to drown me because I won’t admit how much it hurts. Something snags my leg, and I’m dragged under. Above me, the surface of the water. Beyond it, the ceiling, moving like shards of glass.
I think about death and being its daughter.
“Listless,” someone’s telling me, “You are listless.”
I want to say I’m not, but my eyes are closed. My mouth’s a numb hinge I can’t move. On my arms are leeches, latched on. They’re trying to cure me, trying to suck out all this emptiness. Trying to make room inside for somebody better; someone more rock and less water. Trying to turn me into a girl so good that I can finally fall in love with her.
The back of my throat is cotton. It soaks up all the words I’ve never been strong enough to say. All the words that I thought would make me feel brave. I don’t know how to give them a chance. How to spit them out without hurting anyone else in the process. I choke instead and I’m helpless.
I want to say I’m not, but my eyes are closed. My mouth’s a numb hinge I can’t move. On my arms are leeches, latched on. They’re trying to cure me, trying to suck out all this emptiness. Trying to make room inside for somebody better; someone more rock and less water. Trying to turn me into a girl so good that I can finally fall in love with her.
The back of my throat is cotton. It soaks up all the words I’ve never been strong enough to say. All the words that I thought would make me feel brave. I don’t know how to give them a chance. How to spit them out without hurting anyone else in the process. I choke instead and I’m helpless.
I wake up in a dream. There’s nothing here but static air. Everything is in halves, split between what I can see and what the light won’t touch. Split between what I tell myself and what I’ve heard before. I’m staring at myself in the mirror, but I can’t see my face. Just my mother. A mirror. An infinite number of possible mistakes. I don’t know which are the ones I’ll inevitably make.
A fly lands on my glass surface and crawls across it. It rubs its legs. Mumbles the Lord’s prayer. Baptizes me in spit before I can kill it.
A fly lands on my glass surface and crawls across it. It rubs its legs. Mumbles the Lord’s prayer. Baptizes me in spit before I can kill it.
Iris H. Mauricio is a Filipino copywriter based in Manila. She mainlines poetry, short fiction, and screenwriting, with her works often exploring themes of relationships, mental health, mythology, and pop culture. It's common to find her enjoying a nap with her two cats.