I come in the dark hours of my mood and switch on the lights of empty cubicles. 49 switches and yet nothing works on me.
I walk past the empty seats seats that belong to people I see everyday, I smile to everyday, who have never seen my smile in reality.
For few hours I can be happy again. I am free to be alone, to be miserable, to be able to curse myself but not being confused by the presence of these people, who are there for me but not only for me, but for everyone. And not always, but only when it suits them.
It is better that I am alone because I don’t know how to be thankful to them without being bitter, how to voice out the emptiness that flows into me every moment I spend with them and not feel hatred for the kind of person my words paint me to be, how to wait for them with eager heart when their kind words only remind me of monsters that force their way into my life.
It is better that I am alone It would have been better if I could wear these feelings with ease, without waiting for something to change.
“The sky is your canvas”, the book to all ailments said, “there is a joy in filling it up with life.” But as I finished my 157th sketch, as I finished my 300th one, as I finished the one with no count attached (the one I called “the limits that were stronger than me”), as I write over all that I had drawn, as the clouds dragged themselves painfully crawling to some better place, like everything else in my life the sky remained unchanged.
And when I lost my hands to fate, to slow corrosion, to the burden of creation, to the lady in white who couldn’t even lie that “it won’t hurt”, to the painful work of making up things that I want, things that would want me back, or at least won’t walk out, to the hunch that said something is seriously wrong with the kind of life I have.
I wished for the man in the sky to wake up and get to work, to make me some rain, to drop an ocean of crystal on this world, to paint a heaven on this cheap sky of this miserable man.
Because trying on some days, on most days now, feels like living against the wishes of the world. I can’t help but break a bit, cry a bit even when things are right, because they right only because of my efforts. Can you give me something that I don’t have to work hard for, something that was made for me, something that I can keep. A thing, a person, a sign that I can hold in my hand that tells me that you want me to be happy, that you want me to smile, that I am not abandoned after all.
You held me as I broke again and again. Your warm chest tried to hold me, to keep me alive. I couldn’t cry anymore I felt indebted to you I loved you.
You left me again in the crowd that you promised to protect me from. I called you, your number and you name- becoming useless to me with each passing day. I cried because I felt cheated I loved you.
As my heart filled again, as it emptied itself out you stayed in front of my eyes in flesh or in glowing illusions, telling me, nothing is wrong with me. So I slept peacefully because you made me forget my incompleteness I loved you.
You told me love is supposed to be a pain anyway. That this smile of mine that shined in spite of your mistakes, in spite of your cruelty on my weary hopeful heart was the only thing that made you believe in my love. And again I smiled back so that you continue to believe me because I loved you.
There were moments, glorious ones, when you were the most the beautiful human, when you cried for me, when you cried for the world, when you tried to do something right. I wanted to stand beside you so that I could protect you somehow because I loved you more for it.
But now I must face the world and myself alone, without having to become something right in your eyes. Now I don’t have to round up my every feeling to a variant of love. Now I can care for you, hate you and see it as care and hate and a frustration without an end. Now I can see you as the miracle and as the failure that you are. Now I can be a failure myself.
I am not good at loving in the past. I can only be honest. Now I cannot look back at you and call you my heart. You were so much to me that I badly wanted to be something that you want. I kept on sleeping to keep your dream intact and calling this love, when it clearly was not. Even though it was probably something better than that.
There was that pile of paper I couldnever keep safe. The crossed out, always crossed out words, words always out of order, words turned beautiful only because they dissolved in my frustration. Only because now I cannot read them without effort. I must make something out of them something that couldn’t possibly be mine.
The blue ink dripping, forming planets on unexpected letters, forming planets on my hands. I would take them to class and look at them as if now I meant something more, now that I was suffering for something I want.
I raised my hands to answer a question I have already answered hundred times. I sat down and swallowed my teacher’s frown. He didn’t have to teach me that right answers matter only when they come from right mouths. (I once got an A only because I forgot to put my name.) I knew there was nothing I could learn by swallowing frowns everyday, but still I dragged myself, my broken planets, my half burnt poems in my half burnt hands to the one who doesn’t think twice before asking me to hate myself better.
I find myself trapped between forgiveness and frustration.
How often have I said that I want to be your strength. How easy it was to say it when I didn’t really know you or me.
But now when your breaking and my sadness is of your making I am fumbling for better words-
words that can show my heart that aches for you and because of you,
words that don’t forget or diminish your own hurt while talking about the parts of me that are finally dying after loving you for so long,
words that show my hatred for my brittle self, for my heart that is not big enough for real pain or real forgiveness.
Now I don’t know to talk about saving you, about loving you in spite of the demon you warned me about, the part of you that is stronger than me and you, together or apart.
As I kiss you I hear the other part of you digging playgrounds in rain, erasing you furiously from your skin, coloring each bruise with paint of happiness, clawing me, scaring me, making me scared for you.
As I kiss you I want to stand with you in your nightmare I want you to have someone beside you for once. As I kiss you I want to run far away from your world and forget this love.
You walk in with a cake of rust, two hours late. You kiss me , wait for me to smile, to say thanks, to make another offering of myself at your shrine.
You tell me of love, the only love that you cannot get out of your heart. This love that suffocates you these days more than before. How my face asks for too much, even when my voice doesn’t.
I cross out and mess up the frosting trying to hide the wrong name. These days I don’t correct you, or remind you of who I am, and so you forget me just as I thought you would, just as you promised you wouldn’t.
My half hidden sighs tell me that I am just an appointment, things that have to be done, feel good pill of a the mean god that you are. The clearer I see this the more I want to speak against you, to hold you closer with my rage.
I want to speak of all the facts I have on you- the bitter candies from the assembly line that my minds works overtime overnight, to show you the moments you hated yourself most again and again and again. I am weak like that. I am mean like that. And now I don’t want to be better. I wasn’t like this always but now this all I can be.
I don’t remember or expect a beautiful love, now neither should you.
his name doesn’t feel like a dying world now. once, maybe once blue was his favorite word, i was his favorite personthingmedicinegame hope but now that he is burning all his notebooks i believe life is getting better for him. he paints skies for me, paints me flowers that have never known cold. once, maybe once i could let myself rest in him but now that he has found himself i can’t bear to be lost in front of him.
a broken end with a light (a lighter duller than me) touches me. someone says the magic words, the loathsome words that make me the old alice. i am made to leave the seat, the home, the dream, the rights that are too big for me. they leave me a tiny suitcases filled with fancy dresses made of used socks and handkerchiefs. they are cute, they are kind, they have read their fairy tales right. i have never read the right books, so i find myself unable to thank them or kiss their hands. thumblina says my new belongings in glitter i do not know what this name means or the fate that the owner of this name is meant to find but i have heard it is better than being an alice. (i liked being alice more i liked a story written for my sake.) as i walk into the new forest, towards hopefully my last story or at least a story i can make my own for once, i can’t help but think of all the laughing men, now laughing giants fixing my home to their liking. i can’t help but be a bit bitter looking at my hands that can only build for people like them.
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.