बेमौसम बारिश

how it feels getting sick again in the span of 20 days.

i think the cruelest thing
my mother ever taught me

was that pain
is something that has to audition.

that every fever
must prove itself.

that every cough
must sound convincing enough
to deserve kindness.

that every trembling hand
is innocent
until she decides otherwise.

so i learned
to be sick quietly.

to press my face into my pillow
so she wouldn’t hear me crying.

to swallow coughs
until my chest burned.

to count to ten
between waves of nausea
because if she heard me throw up,
she would only sigh
like i had inconvenienced her morning.

i do not know where to run,

when my own mother
cannot bear the sight
of sick me.

i do not know
where children are supposed to go
when the person
they are wired to reach for
becomes the person
they are afraid to need.

no one can hate me
more than my mother
on the mornings
my body is already
falling apart.

as if illness
turns me into someone
she cannot love.

as if the version of me
with heavy eyes
and shaking hands
is too ugly
to deserve gentleness.

my body feels like
it is being ripped apart
from the inside.

like invisible hands
are pulling at my ribs,
trying to separate them
one by one.

my bones don’t ache.

they crack beneath me
like thin ice
every time i try to stand.

my skin feels
too small
to contain
how much i hurt.

and still,

she says,
“you’re faking it.”

such a simple sentence.

you would think
it couldn’t possibly
weigh that much.

but somehow
it settles inside my chest
heavier than the sickness itself.

i start questioning
my own body.

maybe i am dramatic.

maybe everyone else
feels like this.

maybe i only think
i’m sick.

maybe i deserve
to drag myself
out of bed.

maybe i deserve
to be screamed at
for being tired.

maybe i deserve
to apologize
for every symptom
my body cannot control.

i hate that
she has made me
doubt the only home
i will ever live in-

this body.

every morning
she says my name
like she’s trying
to scrape it
off the walls.

there is so much disgust,
in the way
she wakes me up

that i have forgotten
what my name
is supposed to sound like
when it is spoken
with love.

sometimes
i whisper it
to myself.

just to remember
that it belongs
to a person.

not a burden.

not a disappointment.

not a liar.

i am not a liar.

i think
what breaks me most

is not being sick.

it is watching
the hope leave my body
every time
i realize
no one is coming
to put a cool hand
against my forehead.

no one is asking,
“what hurts?”

no one is sitting
on the edge of my bed
telling me
it will pass.

instead,

i listen for footsteps.

i try to guess
how angry she is
before she opens my door.

i rehearse
how to look
less sick.

how to breathe
less loudly.

how to cough
less honestly.

how to exist
without reminding her
that my body
is failing me today.

because somehow

her disappointment
hurts more
than the fever.

i think
that is what loneliness is.

it is not
an empty room.

it is a full house

where no one
believes
you are hurting.

and i wonder
how many mornings
a child can spend
begging silently
to be believed

before they stop
believing themselves.

before they stop
telling anyone
when something hurts.

before they learn
that surviving

sometimes looks like

staying perfectly still,

holding your own hand,

and pretending

it feels enough .

---

xoxo,

aadhya.