There is a kind of happiness that eludes me, a kind of fear that grips me in my sleep, a kiss that makes me fear losing everything I shouldn’t treasure. A person who kills me every second by loving me, by giving up his hollow self to my hungry mouth. A person whose sadness, only sadness is mine. A person who has loved too much, been hurt too much, who now substitutes pity, anger, jealousy, and need in place of true love (what is true love anyway?). I remain awake trying to make this equation work (what is true love anyway?). I weigh my heart against yours and I realize what a waning moon feels like. I collect such new feelings without blaming you (what is true love anyway?). All my treasures are feelings I would accept only by your hands, however cruel and hurtful they may be.
As I swim towards the shore of morning, I think of you sometimes. Sometimes I think of you without malice or hatred or blame. Only sometimes. Sometimes I am able to separate your existence from my pain. I guess, you are no longer my wound or weakness or love.
So as I swim back to the shores that for once are there within my reach, I can look back at you and smile, wanting nothing in return. That is happiest end I can give you.
i slipped, fell, and cut my skin. i didn’t want to care, but i did. i couldn’t help but feel sorry for all the harmless things that ended up being cursed at, blamed for only because i ran towards them with all that i had in me. i recalled the formula of impact, that never meant so much to me till i realized that I also have a body that follows every law ordained by nature. that just because i can imagine and dream an eternity, doesn’t make me or my feelings eternal. i didn’t want to care about such things, but i did. i cared so much that it hurt, even when it should’t.
“warm” this word has become cold sitting at the base of my throat my throat burns and my everything else? my everything else -my pretty flesh and my ugly insides- who want me to be there and at the same want me gone. i guess they want me to change. this is my new low where my organs are my imaginary friends the only ones Ican talk to, the only ones who need me, the only ones I can disappoint, my new friends who are learning the weariness of living for me. I ask around for a lover who has a love for knives and tolerance for madness of all kinds. I hear a hundred thousand sighs in me when the new replacement of romance appears, asks me my name and digs his sharp canine teeth on the last bits of my happiness as a hello. The hundred folded cranes look more like ravens and the one who promises me an end is now my only hope. Now things are easy now that I can’t hear myself breaking now that I have this strange loud laugh to hide behind, this person stranger than me, taking up the blame of everything I have done, helping me hide from everything that I have killed in my life.
On Sundays, I wear the purple summer dress that I once promised myself I would never wear. I paint my nails, I color my lips, and I open the windows in me. I become someone I was taught to hate, I try to break my hatred with my smile. I let myself be reigned by the greed for beautiful, sweet, shining things. I think of all the things I have tried not to want. I let myself be the delicate vulnerable woman that is easy to love, easy to idolize, easy to abuse, easy to blame, and easy to hate. I tell myself that it is not my fault, but the more I live the harder it becomes to believe it. I fall asleep on the floor where first I tasted blood, wondering why I can never give up on this dress, this dream that has given me nothing but hurt.
I heard her again complain about warm hands. A hand that remains warm, always warm, so warm that it almost becomes a fault, a flaw. That it turns into blame, into words that make no sense- “I could have loved him if he was not so good. Good is suspicious. Good is bland. Good is you when you try to be something you are not. He cannot know my heart, if he cannot be human enough to sin”, she said. I wonder why I never met them – the bland people who would be good for my heart, whom I seek in every hand I touch. Maybe I confused grand gestures, big promises, passionate gaze for goodness too many times. I wonder if it is just my weakness, my weariness that now wants someone harmless to live along with.
today’s sadness is brought upon by the increasing count of the words that i have forbidden myself to speak.
today’s sadness is brought upon by the particularly sad song that i have chosen to listen.
today’s sadness is partially due to the strangers with sweet eyes, partially due to my angels with weak hearts, and also the fact that i must love (and have loved) everything wrong without causing pain to anyone but myself.
i must write without baring myself. i must write to never let myself forget what i can’t speak.
do not write this, do not be mean, do not be ungrateful do not blame, no names, no dates, do not put anyone’s weakness on show
all such favors that i must do for the sake of my perpetrators and my protectors.
i must act like a better person, even when i am not in my fingers i am told to hold everyone’s shame and everyone’s guilt, and find my freedom in that.
today’s sadness is a breather, the rare moment i allow myself to see how messed up all this is, before i turn off the light only to stumble through life again.
what is the use of loving you if you won’t speak less and be less for the sake of my ego, if you don’t have the proportions or face to brag about, if you won’t sleep with me, if you have “anxiety attacks” just when i am having fun (it is embarrassing, grow up) if my mom won’t like you, if you can’t give me the kids that i want, if a career, a dream is still on your mind, if you still want friends when you already have me, if you want to write the stupid poems that make me look bad, if you won’t consider me your god, if you continue to live for yourself.
so dear, work hard. work hard or you will become useless to me. there is only so much that i can tolerate for this love of yours.
why is it so that i can only choose love if i let myself look weak. it should have been easy to look weak and crumbling, when that is what i feel all the time. but it isn’t easy. maybe because the weakness of my heart has never made me look incompetent, it just made me look cold and aloof. being good for nothing is more tragic than being broken or being hated.
how hard i have tried all my life to be good at something. so that i am not useless, so that people don’t leave me behind on purpose, so that i can at least look like someone capable and not be embarrassed of myself.
after all the years of running around and making myself believe that soon, soon i will become someone i can be proud of; instead of finding myself, i find you. i find the in myself the want to let go of this control, that hurts my hands, but letting go hurts my pride.
somehow i can’t stop blaming you for asking me to live as me, for asking me to stop hurting myself. what do you know about the life i have lived? what do you know about the things i have sacrificed for living like this? how can you ask me to break what i have built for years?
i cry, i push you away, i cling to the what i am supposed to be, asking you why you can’t just be what i supposed you would be. again i am asked to choose between me and this world. again i know i will choose myself. (by choosing to please the world rather than choosing myself?) but you have some nerve to declare that i won’t. i hate you for your stupid confidence and your disregard for all that i will lose.