my other head bleeds and falls off as does my bloody knife
i can no longer call myself a victim of life now that my sin is set in stone
few more hours for the sun to rise few more hours i must bear the company of my face in few more hours the world will love me now that i look like them and kill like them they will surely love me for having one less brain and one less mouth
my eyes look back at me not accusingly but with pity of what have i done to myself but i dare not cry and act as if i am the one being wronged my tears- i’ll be burying them under the red petunias that you loved
my hearts beats furiously as if running towards something, perhaps an end end of me? end of her? it feels wrong saying “her”, “you” as if a knife is all it takes to set things conveniently wrong
i close the door and leave my open mouth and questioning eyes on the kitchen table i break a nail and break my heart as i dig two graves for myself
I wonder ‘me being right’ at what point of time it became synonymous to finding out that his heart is empty- my name washed out by the waves of the other girl. The girl whom he swore is not his type. “I was right”, I said as my hand trembled with anger and then fear as I waited for the reply, for the apology, a missed call from those whom I should not forgive. But the way my heart is breaking if only they would tell me that they still love me I could have held them close to my chest and thought of them as my family, as the blood that I couldn’t part with. I would have learnt to pretend that I was born with a dagger on my back.
I was right, I understood as I saw few more pictures not meant for my eyes. (these days there are so many things that are not meant for my eyes), as I try to digest the unfamiliar rage in his eyes, as he breaks and breaks and breaks every moment we had When I ask him “if should I stay around? if he’d change his mind?” he tells me he doesn’t know his heart and walks out into the night.
When I switch on the TV I almost expect to find my name in red, my body in red laying on the carpet that he loved but had to ruin for a good cause, for a greater love. This me, my death must be side effect of his love. His love is all that matters now. His love is not our love. Our love is an obstacle to the happiness he can almost reach.
She calls me up again to tell me how to gracefully give up. I hear him behind her, I feel his despair in her voice. (Must be true love.) I hear him hum a song in the background, a song that I have never heard. I hear the ruffle of his clothes that he moved from our life to her home one betrayal at a time. I hear what I don’t want to hear, what I always knew- they don’t want my forgiveness even if I gave it for free, I must mend my life by myself. No past love will do it for me.
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.
In every country, in every city, on every street stands a home that could have been ours. I am a daydreamer like that As I passed the house with an always crying child, as I passed the house with the overwhelming smell of incense, as I passed the house with singing reality shows played on repeat I only thought of the life we could have there. In my mind, we fit every house, we fit every role. Even if our body was stripped of every muscles and every bone even if we put back together the wrong way, even if we our heart were to be rearranged, in my mind we would still fall in love. That is how we had molded the spirit of our love- to be stubborn (if not right or just). But now there are years when I don’t remember you, and yet there is no sadness in me that is capable of ruining me. You are gone and I am trying to grieve for something I don’t particularly miss. As I pass the houses where our stories used to be staged I realize they are again the buildings of strangers that I am supposed to keep my mind away from. My sadness selfishly keeps uttering, “I need to love someone, someone who won’t do this to me. I need to love someone, to believe in love again.” I reach home with bloody nails and bruised fingers leaving behind bricks with our names scratched out.
Today I realized what to call all that I have been reading for so long. A person I didn’t mean to overhear called it ‘a sense of urgency’- the desire to save this world as soon as possible.
It seems the enemies are too many. I saw many names in the list of these enemies that I silently agreed with- pollution, dictatorship, bullying, monetization of education, competing in a rigged world, oppression of lives and loves of minority, hate crimes,…
I scoffed at some: the collapse of society in the hands of socially withdrawn, collapse of economy in the hands of those who want and do less, the unfeeling and unapologetic generation that seems to love depression, women whose learning and thinking too much only breaks families,…
“this is the cause worth dying for”- I suddenly became afraid of that feeling.
As I read all the absurd causes I couldn’t agree with. As I read and became exasperated at the words of those who were convinced that they knew better even as they killed and killed and killed and got addicted to seeing blood dissolving in oceans. I realized how dangerous this feeling could be.
“this is what to means to change the world. to change the world is to walk over everything I don’t want to see” My sense of urgency hated me for thinking this. It recited every quote about silence of good men. But all I could now see was the line that I must not cross, the words I must not say, the knife that I must never hold- no matter the cause.
Every time I held your hand, I felt it. Your blood, your voice, your mind taking a step back, a silent declaration, “I can only love you this much”.
I stood on the lines I am not meant to cross. I shifted uncomfortably from one leg to another, afraid what my next step could do to your heart. Wondering how much of this distance is due to my insignificance? How much of its reason roots in your fears?
I hope I knew how to fix things that are not broken. I wish I knew how to erase and redraw our painfully distant orbits.
the metal melts on my tongue. this must be the fever that everyone warned me against. now i will never know how to die properly.
i used up every drop i could find on this planet to make the broken trees in me grow. and there are so many, so many skeletons with stunted growth.
i read we need not only the sun, but also the leaves, the green to make something that can fill our stomach. that light by itself can only gift hope . how long can one live on hope? just long enough to hate everyone who has a piece fleshy fruit stuck in their teeth.
the only way to live properly i am told is to become the the tailcoat of someone better than me. i must make someone’s life easy, must become a photocopy machine for their blood, must cry silently into the sink as i clean the dishes at night to live a proper life.
but it is too late i guess, i have lost the plan i was told to follow obediently, the only color that remains on my skin are the ones i was born with, the unflattering shape of my body won’t be bought with the coins of love in any shop, my finger, my unshapely hands have become un-holdable.
the adjectives, the rumors, the sad future of mine they falls like pieces of metal on my ears everyday and yet they are not the words i can say, or accept. these word, this metal melts in my mouth they say i will die a sad death, that i will die as i have lived – by myself.
to be human is to float like a single cell life devouring pieces of digestible meaning, splitting and cutting oneself without blood loss into something more manageable. to be human is to lose your legs to the ideas of nation, families, and lovers. to be a human like me is to look at herbivores, carnivores, omnivores, scavengers… and wonder what hunger feels like. it is to order love at every other restaurant waiting for the taste of pain to grow on me, while i mimic strangers stranded on far away tables and hope what i am learning is not another dead language.
Thank you for seeing my rough and the jagged mind, blood running down my arm, hope running out of my eyes.
Thank you for trying and for telling me when you couldn’t try anymore. You have made me feel that I also deserve decent goodbyes.
You cannot love me.
I could have loved you,
though I didn’t.
But it is fine.
Call me at the end of a tiring day,
when you cannot move one step further,
I will try to soothe your heart
just like you did.
The essays I have written on the wretchedness of this world, they are merely an argument, a poor argument, the only argument I can give when I am confronted by the wretchedness of my own soul, the blood on my own hands, the weight of shame on my conscience, and my inability to change.