“all those creatures of rotten wings that circles above us, not even waiting for our death, not even the basic respect for a life hanging by its broken teeth on the clothes line of memory in the unwelcome worrying winds of this world, what if we get to them first, what if we didn’t use our last breath to remember our love, to seek the god we never bothered to think about in life, to raise our hands to give forgiveness, to the ones who are already fighting over our funeral cost, to sit by the trashcan fishing out and reviewing our stories, our lives, only to let out a sigh, always a sigh. what if we take out the meanest arrow in our anger filled, no-longer-shaking arms and shoot them down, not even bothering with threats and pleadings. what if we end things with the sky lit in red. what if we end it all ourselves. without wait. it sounds clean, mean, and better. better than all the things we are allowed to do with our last drop of strength.”
Even when I run away from you. Even when I hate you from the depth of my heart- the same depth where only you can breathe, where I can allow no one but you. Even then you sit there, in front of me, reminding me how difficult it is to destroy this love, whose truth and strength outlives each sad, tragic moment that comes our way, each moment of separation that we are capable of creating from our ugly wants. Once I couldn’t have imagined the joy and frustration of having a love like that. A love that has no end when end is all I want. A love that tells me again and again that I do not really know anything and takes away the key of choice every time from my hands. A love that will not even spare me to stay alive. What a blessing! What a curse! To have this bottomless hope.
Once I was told by my own shattering image that I would learn to laugh at this moment.
It was not a pleasant sentence to hear.
It reminded me of all the sentences that are manufactured in the factories of peace. you will forget this bruise. you will forget those words. you will forget this love. you will forget this face. forgetting is what you really want. far away from every “here” is the place you want to be.
It reminded me of all the meaningless words that were born everyday in the mouths of strangers – words that awkwardly held me not knowing who I am or why I must be consoled but convinced something in me should be put to sleep before it learnt to cry in the audible ranges of pain.
There are too many words in this place. Too little heart. There are too many people who look like they have known pains that I might never have. But they are the same ones who want to bury things that are only broken. So I am going to run towards every “here” out there, towards that lesser life filled with loss. A life where things that are lost are allowed to matter.
I guess now I am the cruel one- the one people fear to love. This scenario was meant to be sad, but it isn’t somehow. (Why do the worst cases taste so bland to me when finally they arrive?) I guess it makes me relieved, if not happy, to feel loneliness more often than feeling distance. No one knocks at my door, and I can’t help but smile knowing it also means no would leave me. No one would leave me in love, leave me in pieces, leave me hating myself again. (Why do my hopes sound like running away even if I am facing life in every way I can, the only way I am allowed to, the only way forward that doesn’t require sacrificing myself again?)
I look out of windows of places that I want to escape and only after 24 hours, only after 12 years in a poem about crows, in an essay about public school, in a story, in a ruin not mine do I find the space to figure out, to sketch what I would have thought of, if I allowed myself to think. If I allowed myself to feel, what I would have loved, what I would have gladly run away from. The lives that I couldn’t start, the roles I couldn’t end they leave my skin and become the masks they always were. I carefully place these masks on the words that have nothing to do with me My words they only hold the mould that were too painful for me to confirm to or accept.
With my back to the my cold family name the metallic alphabets printing hard on my clothes, I stand with my feet half out of my pretty shoes – with my painted nails still hidden in the skin of another animal, my hands revolving the beautiful replica of Saturn around the plastic heart on my elaborate key chain- a stage of its own. I stand and wait for you to open your door on the floor above. I hear a faint click, a phone ring, footsteps running away from the world (why do I feel such sadness when I hear that?), a door left open (to everyone but me) I sit in the middle of my living room floor staring up, at the underside- the creeping mold of the stage where I played your lover, your nemesis. It is cruel and incomprehensible that we can still live, take calls, make jokes, eat, and still have the want to live. After hurting ourselves and the world for the sake of love, after all that, is this is it? When you find your room, your world without me which direction does your heart turn towards? Do forget from time to time that we are supposed to forget each other? When I find my loneliness becoming greater than me, when it starts spilling out of me on dinner table, when it makes me lose my mind, am I allowed to let go of you? Is this what this distance, this decision means? I hear your window open, I hear your excited voice (why do I feel color of anger filling me again?). I wonder if you have really found your new life or is this an act you have put for my benefit? Your kindness could only be in my head, as was your love. TV drowns your voice again and I thank all the accidents, all the things out of my control, everything that moves us away from each other. Otherwise, I never could.
i am in love with the woman who sings and becomes the background of my every night.
i like to listen to her voice as she takes my every second keeps it out of my reach, teaches me some really suspicious ways to keep myself safe from the her demons.
she glows in the darkness that she sews only for me, for me to hold her hand the way she will never be held, the way i will never be held.
i hate to cry, i have cried for a long time for people who called me their option when i was out of earshot my tears are cheap, now all they do is make me feel equally cheap but the tears i shed for her life are beautiful the tears i shed for her (who feels like me) stops me from taking pills i don’t need.
another lover of hers sat opposite me few days ago. she looked so much like her. it made me wonder if i looked like her as well. i wonder she knows her lovers are running amok in the world that she paints with her pain. i wonder if she knows that we are catching all her fears, staying away from guys who speak like her ex, staying away from the patterns she has pointed out.
i wonder if she knows that we tell strangers “she sings well, she writes well” when we want say “she made me embrace the woman in me that i have been trying to kill for a long long time. she stood in my moonlight counting all the daggers that make her bleed every day, the same daggers that i fear to acknowledge, telling me about the exact number of days it takes to collapse again, about the face, her heart, and her womb that are for anyone’s taking, about her rage, her mind, and her will that she was allowed to keep. how she wanted to give up last night. how giving up can become a concept of life every easily but she didn’t want that, because she didn’t want to be the sad pathetic corpse of the woman that the world said she would eventually be.”
i am in love with the woman who wants me to be more than a silent background.