She stood still, her tiny shoulders and ribs (that thankfully can no longer be seen) moved gently with each breath. Each tiny breath like the wave that swept in, like her laughter used to be. She looks at me and asks if it is done. I nod. I meant to say “almost”. Just like I had meant to say “stop”, or “please don’t” or “take me and spare her”. She doesn’t wait for my answers anymore. She skips over the boundaries of our shadows.
Her outline of me drawn in shaky fingers, looks like a human being pulled apart beside her own shadow – a child, complete and perfect. But she looks at her shadow and calls it weird, just like how she called the ocean weird.
For her the smiling children in the glossy magazine were weird, a chocolate bar without an occasion. without a reason were weird, the memories of home she wanted to forget were weird, the days she walked to school with her friend and the days the sun went down as she slept over the struggles of homework were weird. She sat down and tried to come up with an answer for my “why”.
“the ocean is so huge. as huge as, all the things i can’t have but once i had them. it is weird.
it is weird how this ocean is mine now, the breeze is mine along with the sky but i don’t want them.
you have memorized my shadow. you keep bringing me back to life but you tear up so easily as if even you don’t believe yourself. as if you don’t believe in me .
sometimes i feel that this ocean is our gift to each other, it is our heart free of our bodies. sometimes i believe that i am here and you are here and the world where my head can rest in your lap still exists.”
let’s break those darn mirrors. lets not peek through the hands of fear. let’s not see the monsters of sorrow. remember not where they walked and where they hide. close your eyes and wait.
for the end.
there is an end?
there always is.
there are ends that pierce through our our shoulder blades and the blinds of our ribs. it is actually beautiful to see how heart melts away too easily, stops too easily loses it way too easily.
there are ends that make broken mirrors magnificent, that smell like our mother, that find our mouths at the dead of the night and breathe in their last breath into our collapsing lungs.
it is sad to see how our helplessness asks sacrifice from others how we go back to sleep, as if nightmares, once they end, are only fiction. how we realize only after hours and years, wake up too late to notice the blue hands, that once seeked us in storms, decaying under the sunshine of the most beautiful day of our lives.
When I try to imagine, to recall the face of another human being.
I always see them standing opposite me with an expressionless face, holding out their hand.
When they are ghosts of pasts, they are breathing cities of peculiarities and possibilities. I feel they were waiting for my hand to touch theirs. I feel as if they have saved up their last smile for that moment. The steps I couldn’t take, can now never take, they look so easy, so worth it, so worth keeping as regrets.
But I never learn because when they are reflections of present, they are breathing statues and frozen hearts that couldn’t possibly beat. I know that this hand is not for me, that I have extinguished the smile on that face just by being myself, just by existing.
Only the warm breath of passing time can make me miss the world that could have been. Only on the streets I cannot walk grow my trees of faith.
But even then, even for the past I barely feel any love. What I feel is something similar to the relief in the things that won’t change. The pull I feel is for the trust that can never be broken, my heart that I never had to give out, the hand of every stranger that remained innocent thereby.
“Does rust affect plastic dreams?” I ask my teacher in my sleep. She takes out an axe and starts cutting down the first mouth filled with wrong answers. Two rows away she wipes her brows and folds her sleeves, she takes another deep breath before she checks the attendance sheet and finds the next dream to kill.
She tells me I should think more and ask more and ask the questions that help me live. She looks at the metal that grows out of my pores and gives me another chance. She says only if I would try to be better than the people I am clinging to, I could grow up to be her. I look away from the blood that flowing down her neck, the parts of her that she intends to kill by holding other’s breath.
“What about my mother’s arms, weak weak exhausted arms? Are those my telling signs? Does that mean I don’t have to worry, that I am just someone next in line? What about you? Do you rust like me? Would the color of my rust, would my weakened heart make me worth protecting, make me deserving of kinder words?
She told me “It will not get you respect or equality, if that’s what you are looking for. It can sure get you love, of some kind, for some time but it is just a matter of time before you see the end that only you can write. And you would end up writing it cause that painful end would be more truer and more yours than any love that you find by compromise.”
As she walks past me, smiling lovingly, as she spares my life, that now she owns. As she dissolves my only way back, I realize too late, that my chaos and my doubts were more hopeful than an answer like this that promises pain to everyone else but me.
All the spring’s color have been molten and poured into the broken casts of summer. They seep into ground, into autumn leaves that falls in every space between you and me. They sing something for us again as we shiver and stop ourselves from giving in, as you hold back from saying every word that can fix me (at least for now). I google how to kill feelings that don’t let me eat or speak or smile. I bite my lips trying to bury the words that would shine in your colors, if you were to look at me. If you were to look at me, you would be only sad to know how unchangeable my heart is.
You tear sheet after sheet, rip them out of calendar and hand them to me. We burn 11 months, saving only December, because you never know. There is a knock on our door, someone who is lost brings in the chilled wind, the fine dust of snow, and voices celebrating something we will never understand. I wait for you to come back and settle into you warm sleep. I sit at the foot of the sofa, and think about the one time I dreamt of death. I was looking out of window waiting for you and you came back with new pair of eyes that never settled on me, and when I was almost about to cry you moved towards me with a dying sparrow in your trembling hands. It lay on its side with its soft violent gasp for breath that were perfectly in sync with mine.
The last stranger at the funeral home brought in the worst rain of the season, the coldest wind of the night along with your last letter. He leaned against the window and called up everyone he won’t be able to meet today looking at me all the while. As if he knew every word that I was reading. Probably waiting to see whether I cry at the same lines that he did. His eyes look like the ones who have got used to crying for things that cannot be undone, for a life that cannot be. I wondered if he loved you. Maybe he did. Maybe you knew. I hope you did. He sat beside me trying not to grieve more than a mother, trying not mourn like a lover, making himself invisible with every word i read under my tearful breath
“…even when I sat at the dinner table with my brightest smile and deepest hunger, i couldn’t convince me that i needed to exist here. even the warmest embrace of this world could do nothing but break me. i knew opening my heart could only bring floods and all ends of all kind. i knew all along of this end. forgive me for pretending otherwise….”
He was somewhere upstairs running barefoot on the dusty floors of the broken house. I could hear him even when I stood waiting in the backyard staring at all the rusty memories, feeling the stare of people who will never leave this place, who may never leave me again now that I fear them for never actually dying. I tried not to love him as I stood alone waiting for him to get bored of all this.
I was too afraid to be with him when he was like that. when he read aloud poems about death out of the blue, and read them as if they were the only true declaration he could make to the world, the only true word that he could say to his life. I would only later find out that they were written by someone else – someone who lived in a difficult to pronounce country. He loved things like that – taking up the clothes of emotions of others and wrapping himself up in them as he walked into all the unknown lives that oddly had a room reserved just for him.
And always, I would be outside waiting for the sun to set, for his heart to ease, to be there when he decides to come back to reality for good. I didn’t realize that footsteps had ceased long ago, and so had his breath. So I stood there letting my heart run barefoot on the floor of delusion, in the world where he exists. I waited for my love to give up on him. I was afraid of being me when my love stop, won’t look back at me.
As I climb, my steps remembered the shoes I once had the ones that didn’t hurt so much and how hands of mine that hacked through them just to become my own person, some sort of grown-up. I climbed over the yellow soft dress and the light that it caught just to get this, this body that looks held together but is not (this body knows only how to fall apart), just to get few more shadows that ruin my beautiful wrist with their persistent passion. They claw through me, to see how I am made, how I look and speak once I break. A stranger once left me at the bottom of a black pond and called it love just so that I won’t cry and in return I called him my love just for few breaths, just for my life. I climbed over the right to mean the word “love” thereafter and the dream of knowing a heart other than mine. I breathe as if I have sinned yet I walk like I am happiness and determination in flesh. I cling to all the bitter bits of this world as if they would ultimately save me. I climb over, get over, and forget so easily, so bitterly that each feeling of mine is just a shade of resentment.
Her floor had always been the color of the season I remember this, only when I step into the mess of her life. The spring issues lay scattered like the flowers The pink, red, yellows, and greens, women who only know youth, women who only grow younger the kind of woman she wanted to be (what a small impossible dream) and she almost is. And now that she can never change would she be happy? When/if she comes across her own lifeless eyes in the missing posters would she be glad to be one of the “sad popular”? I shatter the home of her missing goldfish in my haste efforts to pick them up and put them out of sight- the bundles of glossy paper that my eyes can’t handle. I try to put them away, wanting to throw them away now that she wouldn’t mind, now that she won’t yell at me or anyone for taking away too much of her. I want to try it. i want to try, so she has no option but to stop me. “let’s leave her in peace” tells me my moral compass and my grief. “i don’t want to show her the kind of respect that only dead deserve” shouts back my anger and my love. I drop the heaviest bag in this world on her rain soaked bed. Her last dress, her last chocolate wrapper, her last bus ticket, her last mistake, her last breath everything spilling out, everything ruining the spring that I dreamed for her along with her.
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.