she traced the light on my chest pulled out everything that stung- the swings, my feet, the shadow i decided no longer to play with.
the comparision table of veins and arteries copied into my notebook. the eraser and pencil that helped me document in those tables my lackings compared to everyone else.
a page torn, and then another, and then another. pages that learnt immortality by choosing my heart as home.
she stayed up nights trying to free me as i stuggled and begged not to empty me. she smiled and said the words she didn’t mean, words that i wanted to hear from someone, anyone.
so i slept because she couldn’t be stopped. “leave me alone” now hurt me more than her. i opened my eyes and cried for her work was done, now i was no one, now nothing was mine, not even my pain, not even her.
she dusted her cobweb skirt, placed a kiss on my forehead and told me to breathe, breathe in everything that i didn’t think i had the right to.
she told me to breathe and to never forget what suffocation felt like. it helps in becoming kind, she said.
as she wiped clean her traces from my life, i felt better, again i was full. i was full of her, of this love that won’t work out. being full of her, i refused to breathe, because i wanted to keep it that way.
and this sad premise is not a commentary on how rotten the world is but an observation that we have a pattern that is hard to break.
that people often misinterpret the habit of one thing as a proof of its superiority over everything else in world.
that words can move your heart, sometimes for worse. it can move you towards hatred, towards fear towards anger that is not your own.
that the wish to be right makes us forget how to wear someone else’s shoes or their color or their nationality or their body. a body that is no longer their own – now that they are just a sack of blood, a sacrifice to please our personal gods – our thirst of power and the “better world” that no one else wants.
this sad premise is not a commentary on how rotten the world is for i do not have the courage to write the worst or to imagine how i am right now walking over faceless nameless beings to maintain my world just like you.
The dead world lives through her. Her escape is a door left open for the violence to spread, or so she always believed. When she saw someone who reminded her of love, saw that the fragile bird of happiness would choose sit by her window and wait for her to sing back, when all that could make her feel safe and somehow better smiled at her and asked her name. She would remember how from her skin and her mind grew trees of fear every night. The flood that has left her land loomed above this forest. Anytime the cloud would burst, the past would burst through her smile, and all would be lost. Today, tomorrow, day after, on an afternoon when she would forget about it all, on a beautiful day like that she knows she will find sorrow again. So she stays quiet and writes a softer tragedy of a girl who could never tell her name to anyone who chose her hoping for happiness.
It is time that I try hard to get my heart broken and pretend that it is happening for the first time,
to claim that I trusted blindly knowing it is not something I am capable of,
to fit my body awkwardly in the kind of life that people call ‘life’
to find words, to practice the new lingo that can make something about me relatable, so that my skin soaked in a tiring tale of sadness doesn’t make me an alien,
to fill me up again with pictures of parks, cafes, malls, and roads filled with people who supposedly like each other, if not a lot, then at least enough to not let their ailing self ruin the perfect moment, the perfect teamwork, the perfect promise. (Perfection that relies on someone else doesn’t sit well with me.)
It is time I find something new that I cannot be or cannot have before I lock myself up again for next hundred heart years.
So while I am out to find something to write about and hurt about miss me my cell, pray for me. I am afraid that once I am surrounded by all that I have learned not to want, I might start to hope again. I might slip again. I might forget to see the distance that I carry in me and get disappointed by the doors that I can’t reach.
How long should I bleed for the one who holds the knife.
I pluck another flower of kindness to appease the one who won’t even smile for me. He looks at it and tells me the tested foolproof ways to kill this useless plant that grows in me and cracks his shield.
He tells me he will love me more if I will cut his skin instead of making him look as bad as he is, if I struggle a bit to get back at him rather than struggle to know him like this.
He says “i would like us to be peas of the same pod, i would like us to be the insects with same appetite, i would like you so so much more, if you would help me rule this world that doesn’t listen to me. if you could speak the same words as i do, words dipped in careless anger rather than the ones served with pity. don’t tell me the danger of my dagger by slicing away your skin. you feel more like an enemy now. the more you bleed to make me suffer, to make me give up, the farther you get from the person i could love.”
How long should I bleed for the one who holds the knife to stop him from cutting his own heart. This will hurt him, he knows, eventually if not now. Yet he is becoming a creature of claw with a paper skin, he is growing a dream from the horrors he has only read. The unnatural pauses on his lips, the look of helplessness in his eyes makes me wonder if he even knows how to stop.
The night doesn’t quite reach my land. There are columns and mountains of light that my people have given themselves to.
I never roll down my windows. There is a scent of death in the air. I don’t want to remember how burning is painful.
In my mind I run towards the memories of my perspective correction classes. I pick out a card, a line that works the most “burning is luminous”.
Yes, burning is lumious. Burning is magic, burning is beautiful. It is beautiful as long as I don’t hear the cries of one being burnt. It is magic as long as I don’t ask for confirmation of my worst fears being true from the others who never open their windows.
There is red in the news no one talks about, there is red in the names that disappear over night, there is red splattered inside the world in my head but the world is suspiciously clean even when all I smell is death.
When I close my eyes, it is never dark. Something burns before me, I am always aware of it. I wonder if I would ever know sleep again.
i can’t…i just can’t bring myself to remove all the ellipsis…that i leave behind in my sentences. i know they look shabby… as if i don’t know how to create proper sentences…as if i have never heard of a comma. i am told it is something similar to ending and pausing sentences with “you know”.
“so juvenile”…my friend had commented. i remember saying the same words to my friends as well (but i don’t think my tone was the same, but i could be mistaken…or self righteous)…so it seems i am not allowed to take it to heart. i am supposed to erase the ellipsis…till they smile again and lie that “i will do better”…or that “it’s time i grow up”…or “gotta become a real poet”.
it seems it is okay to store my ellipses in my mind to place it on an empty sky, on the face of my teacher sprinkled with a hatred that i can’t understand, on the hands that never reach out to me in daylight, on the future i can’t seem to dream about, on every minute that i walk alone on the streets where i thought i would never have to be alone, on the days when i know the answer but won’t speak up for the fear of being right. i don’t know how to live a life where what i think has importance or the acceptance of others. need to find a better home for my pauses than pages that are mine but only with conditions.
the broken-hearted know no love for anything or anyone that is not the one breaking their heart. they see through you. even when they say hello they almost get your name wrong, you can tell it from the look in their eyes. they drink and fill every room with songs that were not so hard to bear when they were just noises that radio made. they tell you in their drunken stupor that no one cares.
they say no one cares even when you call the cab, drag them home, hurt your hand in the struggle, scrape more than skin, lose more than patience, leave them on a bed not made for weeks probably, you don’t want to guess or know. so you close the door, climb down the stairs shut down the part of mind reserved for them, but remember how they have been liking and sharing too many dark poems, how those poems speak in their voice in your mind. so you climb back, remove every blade and knife and realize it is just the beginning. you feel exhausted by the inexhaustible list of things that can help end a life, that can serve as a full stop.
so you sleep on the couch or pretend to, till your head hurts from pretending. now that you want something true you call your love and tell him that you don’t know how to handle this, how to sleep and yet keep an eye on the one whom you suspect is waiting, waiting for you to close your eyes for a second to make an exit that doesn’t exist. he tells you that they are beyond hope at the same time he forwards articles that could give you hope. he tells you to sleep tight knowing you won’t.
when you wake up at the sound of tears being microwaved for breakfast, you see another day that won’t be right. you see them trying not to break yet breaking and abandoning everything around them so that their hurt can be felt by the world. they look at you and smile while they pour another glass toasting “another drink for the world that doesn’t care, another drink for the loveless me.”
the broken-hearted know no love for anything or anyone that is not the one breaking their heart.
i read this on a torn sheet of paper that was lying, waiting (possibly for me?) in that empty hall, that on a normal day has never known empty. and being who i am, this again had to be an easy answer from a higher power. being who i was i believed that the confusion in my mind rocked every throne in heaven. so again i assumed as i said i never would, that these must be the words that could solve me. never mind the context, never mind the book or it’s title. there is so much missing and this paper still remains it might mean something, it must mean something, everything had to mean something for me to somehow go on. it said “your desire would burn away, the moment you let it have your words” so i uttered your name with the place you have in my heart. i mustered up enough courage to speak of the place i wanted in you. it sounded dubious and shallow. it sounded so much like me that i thanked myself for not saying it to you. i made a clean tear through that piece of paper for being too right and being too wrong and walked away wanting now to become a better vessel, the person on whose lips these words would really sound the way they felt i walked away waiting for my mind and your heart to become good enough for those feelings.
as you melt your heart into oceans i fear my arms betray me sometimes, sometimes they go numb, they surrender at the thought of your warmth. when you tell me of your love as i ache for another, i want a part of me to ache for you as well. when you settle for being my comfort rather than my love, i wish i had loved you instead. but we are selfish dear i cannot give up just as you can’t. we wait to be seen by the one we can’t seem to reach. we wait because that’s the only answer we have. we try to forget the love that we can have but don’t want. i am fond of you, so forget me if you can. i can’t bear to see my pitiful self in you, i can’t bear to drag you down to my hell only to leave you alone.