𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “The Root and The Rot” by John Paul Reyven S. Anadilla

Published by: Francen Anne Perez

Date Published: July 23, 2025

Time Published: 9:00 AM

Category: Prose

Theme: The anatomy of emotional exile—where tenderness becomes a curse, and survival demands self-erasure.

I’ll forge this organ, this wet, trembling thing behind my ribs, into something cold. A reliquary of nails. To stand untouched as the world pours its acid rain, its shrapnel love and its casual eviscerations. Not a flinch. Not a tremor. Is that alchemy? Or just another kind of annihilation? This curse… this 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯… of feeling the world’s nerve endings as my own—it flays me alive. Must I conjure a golem, a saint of indifference, just to shield the ghost-child who flinches at a moth’s wing brushing the dark?

To feel 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴… it deranges the very atoms. To be 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗻 feeling… Christ, 𝗶𝘁’𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗮 𝗻𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝘂𝗻, every raw, pulsing filament exposed. I was never that child in the picture book, the one with the clear, bright eyes. 𝘕𝘰. I was the stained glass window shattered into a thousand cryptic shards, the illuminated manuscript no priest could decipher. My gestures, my seeing, my very 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵… they landed like dead birds. Misinterpreted. Or worse – 𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥. Neglect is a tomb. Was I… 𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨? Some essential cipher everyone else was born knowing? A missing limb of the soul?

I weep when the wind holds its breath too softly. When silence doesn’t answer back, it just 𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹𝘀. When absence thickens the air until it’s syrup in the lungs, then I fold, smaller, 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳… compressing this ache into a single, burning drop of rain. I weep for the confessions said only to the cracks in the plaster, for the slant of light on my bed that feels like a benediction, and for the nights so dense they crush dreams in the cradle. I shrivel. Not like a worm… like carrion left too long on the hot asphalt, yearning for the ditch’s cool shadow. A mass of wilt, yes—parched by the very sun I craved, dissolving under the weight of wanting to be… 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲. Something other than this cracked vessel brimming 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮𝗻 𝗼𝗰𝗲𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝘁 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗱.

𝗔𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲

𝗔𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝘀𝗮𝗹𝗺𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝘀

𝗜 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲

𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗿𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝗲

𝗜𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝘁𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳.

I am rooted here. In this black soil of decay. My core is a necropolis. I have made my pact with the silence: 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝘀𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗱 I’ll wear only when the dirt fills my mouth. Until then… I learn the liturgy of survival. The terrible grace of 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙩. The sacred profanity of carrying this breathing corpse, this beautiful, appalling blasphemy, through each decomposing sunrise. Just learning to bear the unbearable weight of being 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚.