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Backspace

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The backspace on my phone has known more stories
than anyone else
and as everytime the cursor restlessly blinks,

*blinks*

*blinks*

*blinks*

I wonder if the other person would ever know what I really feel.
Where did your raw self go? I ask.

There are more stories trapped between our screens
and our minds,
than there will ever be in this world.
So if someday,
someone asks me for a story,
I’d ask him to wait for the clock to strike 2:22,
mother always said vulnerability is best shown tired,
because that’s exactly how I feel
when I ruthlessly backspace words
choking my throat.
When I rehearse them in my chatbox
before they enter someone else’s.
When I think of all the answers I might get.

Backspace, let us not send this.
Backspace, let us leave it at ‘take care’.
Backspace, ‘I miss you’.
Backspace, ‘I like you’.
Backspace, ‘I like your curls’,
he will get to know how I feel.
Backspace, ‘I wish…’
Backspace…
when there’s nothing really left to delete
but the messages you think
you shouldn’t have sent.

And as I fear rejection l tell myself,
Not good enough.
Not fair enough.
Not fit enough.
Not my type.
Not…

Mother says it’s human to fear rejection,
but I don’t know why
I still backspaced every word I ever wanted to say.
Maybe I am not human enough.

33 backspaces is what it took me to write this,
that the backspace is too tired
to even wonder if
I will ever say what I feel.
It is now too full to backspace words.
Too full to start speaking for me.

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