It's the tissues on your bed,
your trashcan,
your floor, and
your palm.
I guess, having it all around you makes you calm,
Because,
You were a red champagne, showing elegance in a fragile glass.
You were a mirror, reflecting the light into the hole of darkness.
You were a coin purse, collecting of what has left after the purchase.
You were a water, holding the spaces that the hand weren't able to reach.
Yut,
you are a sob in a silence,
a tear in an unknown place,
a dust in an empty space,
a mask of a happy face.
Again,
it's the tissues on your bed,
your trashcan,
your floor, and
your palm.
I guess, they're the bits of your mess hanging on the helm.
Now,
it's filing up like a stack of unsaid words,
forgotten promises,
hateful sentiments, and
silent cries.
It's one of your pitiful day, I must say.
On that hell hole you must not stay.
Tears, just wipe it off with a tissue,
'cause no one will do it for you.
Smile, you mastered that facade,
don't show the sadness you always denied.
WIPE, WIPE, WIPE IT,
written by: Haidee Maneja
illustration by: Nicole Brozo
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