DEATH Poem: It’s Finally Bedtime, by Annabelle Kim

Stories soothe the best when imagination soars as the eyelids close and the covers’ corners adjusts and finally a warmth envelopes. So, smile and snuggle as I tell you this tale of my bedtime story.

Perched upon the windowsill, a princess is supposed to be:
her room is meant to be filled with flowing flowers caressing
decorum selected in soothing styles for her yearning presence.
A room for her and nothing more.

At least that’s what my mama said.

A princess, my dear, lives amongst grace with pride and splendor;
see the roses of sharon adorned across your ceilings embracing the
piano, you so dearly play, in a lightened halo softened only by night light.
The room builds you and no one else.

At least that’s what my mama said.

And yet mama, tell me why as I shuffle around my bed,
whilst yearning for sleep to grace my eyes
I feel an itch on my legs
I feel the humps on the bed
I feel scuffs from blankets
I feel the weight weigh on my chest.
A princess is supposed to sleep her beauty sleep for her to be a beauty.
And yet mama, tell me why as I awake tomorrow
I know that eyes dull, red faced, swollen mess all too well?

I guess I lied too to my mama.

A corner of my room she has seen.
A vision of sereneness she has been shown.
A reality of overload she has yet to foresee and feel.

A truth I owe her.

Boxes. Mama. I live amongst boxes.

Perched upon the windowsill, a princess is supposed to be;
Yet caved in cardboard has stolen her spot. Objects of mine
and friends and some from him stay in those boxes. Ones of
use, clothes and shoes, lay in obstacles amongst the floors
among the wrappers of chocolate I ate the night before. A
lip gloss or two lay forgotten yet starkly amongst blackened socks.

I live amongst memories of a future desired I have seen in
dreams and nowhere else. Perhaps in scribbled books they
may echo. Yet I just simply exist breathing to get on by, eveloped
in a room of dusty smells of packed away giggles. Notes of songs you
ask I play nights prior has long been gone in this life, mama. Long
been sold to strangers who wanted a set of keys for their talented son.

Boxes, mama, meant to be unpacked, lay still duct taped within my room.
Sharped edged long gone from the scuffle of the move are reminders of
days of promises to get things out and away. But too many hours and alarms
have come and gone. A window of opportunity I failed to grasp. Now, boxes
have become a norm – a regularized phenomenon as I come and go. Far easier
it is for me to be able to climb and grapple around the decorum I have chosen.
A room for storage and nothing more.

Don’t ask me to take more boxes, mama.
Soon they will take space from my bed. But a favor here and a favor there
means I need to merge and stack the ones already existing prior.
I don’t need more boxes, mama.

But why are they already at the door?

Packages arrive when the dawn cracks for me to gather and collect: a
spot for them upon my desk with the other letters and trinkets sent from
friends so far away, all unopened and waiting for the day I care to sit
down and embrace their warmth once more. A gift from you, mama,
lay amongst the many. Told you, I did, that I enjoyed the surprise and
yet no urge pushes me to find out what lies beyond the cardboard box.

I stuff my room with boxes with no end to see.
I take them all and place them upon each other.
I see dusted layers of the first boxes moved in.
I sense a bit of comfort in the storage room created.

A hero, mama, is supposed to come for the princess
swoop her away from the dusted past into the roar of life.
Your stories always ended with a hero.
My expectations always started with a hero.
A hero, mama, never comes in my bedtime story.
The boxes block the hero from the princess.

And so, my bedtime story, mama, filled with the boxes
I have put here myself into the room in a damp corner
of a city far away from you ends with a choice to refuse
a hero and embrace the sleep that comes at the end of
each story told at the dampening of worldly light.

I ignore an itch on my legs
I ignore the humps on the bed
I ignore scuffs from blankets

I embrace the boxes filled with mine, yours, theirs, and his.
I embrace the weight weigh on my chest.
I embrace the darkness of the night post your bedtime story.