Comparison Is a Curse

By writing from the perspective of a boy caught in an eerie and shifting atmosphere, I wanted to show how easily anxiety can root itself in comparison, in things unsaid, and in the silence of those we trust most.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mama said not to touch

the velvet pouch

glinting on the table

like something sacred,

or spoiled.

Its drawstring curled like a sleeping snake.

It shimmered like gold teeth.

I watched it for hours,

pretending to sketch the lantern—

brittle glass and copper twists—

but really,

I was waiting for it to breathe.

The cabin was too quiet.

Too remote.

Too good for a weekend

and not good enough

for a whole week.

That’s what Dad said,

before he left

to “stretch his legs.”

That was three sunfalls ago.

There’s a whistle I hear sometimes.

Not a tune, not a bird—

a sound with breath behind it,

aimless and searching

like it lost someone.

I told Mama once.

She brushed my cheek

with her velvet robe and said,

“Don’t make things up just because you’re bored.”

But her eyes stayed

on the lantern.

She’s different now.

Wears her lipstick darker.

Lays logs without gloves.

Forgets to feed the fire,

but not the bag.

Last night,

I opened it.

I swear I didn’t mean to.

It opened itself.

Inside—

nothing.

Just old dirt,

something hard and crumbling like a tooth,

a red velvet ribbon

wet with something

that didn’t dry.

I put it back.

I washed my hands.

I haven’t drawn since.

In the mornings,

I hear her pacing.

Wearing heels now.

Who packs heels for a cabin?

Today, she said:

“You’re just like him.”

I don’t know what she meant.

I think she did.

She wiped the lantern

with the same ribbon.

I stay in my corner.

I whistle into my scarf.

I hold my breath

when she hums.

Comparison is a kind of curse.

I didn’t know that before.

But now—

I try not to walk like him.

Not to laugh like him.

Not to disappear like him.

Because there’s only one pouch.

One lantern.

And Mama doesn’t believe

in mercy twice.