There is something beautiful about people who lose themselves when they lose someone. The layer of sanity that cracks, the heart that lets the past take over- is a feeling I would never understand. And all I do in such weather is wait. Wait for my coping mechanism to kick in, to take the decision away from me, and let me forget the meaning of loss.
I read another funeral in my lines of fate, another goodbye in the text not returned, another scene with poor lighting standing where I would be least hurt, saying words I do not mean, words that go well with my rock heart- staying true to my widely advertised image.
But I am not unfamiliar with wet cheeks and sleep that follows. I have cried for minor cuts and burning bruises, at the wrong weather, at the curbs on my freedom, in the argument that felt like a arrow I can’t take out. I have cried a bit more, a lot more than these small disruptions in life deserve.
I wonder if they would have broken me, would have shaken me like this if all whom I have lost were beside me. If everyone who hid their farewell in their lemon scented “love you” cards could stick by a little more, would I have cared for or cried for the rains that won’t stop?
As I scatter in wind the feelings that I dare not keep. I feel a soft kiss of understanding asking me to stop. If only I could.
I hope something beautiful of this world
seeps into your dreams gently
and I hope it gives you the strength
to wake up another day
to a world that was also made for you,
even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.
She told me I feel like frozen tulips and I do not know what she meant by that. She never talks of flowers or future or what I might be in this world by myself or by her side. So we pretend such words were never said. We pretend that the meaning we give to each other’s words are true and real and the only meaning we need.
a blue cloudy sky over a banana plantation. the only word to be heard – rebellion. someone is crying far away. another round of bullets leave the shaking hands of the one who can’t seem to stop crying. now he must die just like me. he rests his bloody head and its murky thoughts on me. in this last afternoon of my life i drift into bouts of darkness, without fear for first time, with the company of only his confused memories. will this be my last dream – his life? even in his head my homeland and its afternoons are beautiful. he has a face that he doesn’t want to forget, he has childhood home he can always return to but he didn’t, he regrets it now. he remembers the red color that his sister stopped wearing on her lips once her heart was broken badly. how he kept it with himself, as a symbol of happiness that he can’t have only for himself. there are ports on rainy days and buildings that became sadder at night. he once painted the window that would never open to him or anyone else for that matter. he cried when another nameless woman was found lifeless on the last page corner of newspaper and the window never lighted anymore. there is a cafe filled with few bombs that didn’t go off where the only one spared was him. he doesn’t want to be spared anymore. i wonder if he thinks that he can have happiness when he ends. i wonder if i will be able to smile on a rainy day, even if i am born again.
the leftovers of last night fill my fridge. “never to be ruined” is what i would want to believe. but i do not have the patience to wait and see. i do not have many things in me- lacking of sorts, but not as deep in feeling. it is fine as long as it doesn’t reach me. it is fine as long as it doesn’t reach me. i step away and sit down it the unnatural unnerving glow of all that was delicious once. on the floor beside the broken fridge door i wait for my hunger or desperation to return. i wait to see what i loved in the love that is dying without me.
someone whispered you are special and i knew that this is sleep (the pleasantly confusing side), that this is a memory of something that will never happen again (should i be sad?). paper dolls hurried me down the aisle of a supermarket, opening up packets and packets of laughter that I had not yet paid for (should i be worried?) They made me stand at the counter, chirping “it’s time”, “it’s time” “it’s time” and someone who tried hard to look like a human, who had tried to scratch away the face of demon drawn by my hands, stood with a trolley filled with sad colors, handed me his card with my name written on his scratched out one and told me “now you fall”. and all i could say was “i hate you” “i hate you – not in used-to-love-you way” “i hate you – the way i hate having a broken heart” “let me wake up”
When I speak of what I thought my life would be like, what I still want to be if I was not dying in my skin, they give me a funny look as if I am seeing things.
And frankly I am seeing the only things that give me hope. I am aware of their imaginary status and how separated by time they are from my life.
But I wish instead they would just smile along as if I am a child who speaks of ten professions in one breath and not remind me how I am losing out in life as a woman just because I am trying to breathe as my dream once in a while.
It hurts a bit more naturally and less violently, now that betrayal has a range, has not one but many faces. Now I need not figure what I did wrong.
All the boxes are checked:
family, family, friends, not friends, thank-god-we-were-never-friends friends, i-am-sad-i-stood-up-for-you friends, people who marked my skin with their name to own me while i slept in their arms (another golden cup added to collection of people hard to get, people who won’t die if thrown away or left alone) loves whom i am tied to, the ones who demand smile and sometimes a bit more, always a bit more.
They know the feel of my hand and love how it heals. They hold my hand in their sleep in their nightmares, in the storms of passion that they need a person to aim at. They break my wrist in my nighmares, in my awareness of my fruitless love. When I am at verge of crying, they tell me to not give them a hard time and to act like the refuge that I am supposed to be.
So I tell them “I love you” and this lie hurts a little less everyday as my heart becomes the stone pedestal all my loves stand on.
Don’t tell me of your love. Tell me you’ll leave tomorrow and stay a day more. Move an inch closer when I take your name. Let me not believe you sometimes and smile when I do. I don’t want love, but I will try to want it, if you try to want me slowly and cautiously. When you put on that random radio station let me stare at you as you dance, breathe as if I am not here, let me see who you are without this want for me. Smile when you catch my eye and kiss me if I smile back.