The brightest star of my childhood dreams sits on the set of a sitcom and tells jokes about me. He wins few hearts and breaks few guitars- becomes an artist of some kind. He fills the screens with the love he only spoke about. I become a bit more irrational in his stories sometimes so much, that I feel no wonder when he forgets who I really am. It feels natural when I don’t look at him when I talk of love, or when I don’t talk about myself. I trace the distance between the dreams that he had and the person he has become and find myself stuck between choosing and abandoning the same person with different heart. How helplessly we have drifted to a life where our best doesn’t do much, where my undying love only causes me pain, where your eyes filled with dream only makes you blind, where the death of our love and the tear from my eyes are the only thing that gets you closer to what you want.
In her loudest, happiest voice she told me about one of her near-death loves, how she wished her skin would stop keeping her alive. She laughed at how we both always find something awfully painful or ugly in common, how we should probably never call each other just to remind each other of the spite that lives in our blood.
I moved her lackluster glass of fake green mojito by an inch towards her and looked past her at the couple who sat closest to the sky. The wind that touched them called out to me again, reminded me about my trembling legs and my heart that didn’t want to give up yesterday.
I told her about the fall – my bad decision, my backing out again at the last minute- another really bad decision. I told her someone needs to lock me up before I take any more decision as I showed her my new skinned knee and told her in detail about all parts of me that were filled with pain even now only because of that one moment in which I wanted to live more than anything.
She walked towards the the railing decorated with hearts that won’t light and found herself a seat, placing her elbow carefully away from the mess that the ones in love left behind. She waited for me to follow her as I always do.
I stood behind her and felt a fear very similar to mine swimming in her mind. I wanted to tell her, it will get better. but I couldn’t. I wanted to believe in this, in this hope for better; if not for me, at least for her. And I knew she had nothing to say now because her throat was also crowded by the words she doesn’t believe. We are painfully alike even in our search for hope, even when we are searching it for each other.
the one thing i can’t be is honest. though there are many other adjectives that stare at me from their balconies at midnight as i walk and crawl through the dirt road, through the pool of lights, crying and shouting and breaking dreams in every home that i pass by. i hear them shaking their heads with disapproval and hopelessness. i look at their hazy shadows and try to hate them in equal measures but i don’t because they are so easy to forget. but this honesty, this honesty that people expect vexes me. this expectation makes me want to hide, run, run over their hearts all because it is so simple. all because the ones who ask me of this through their tears are not mere observers but are the ones struggling to stay close to me fighting the unnecessary sandstorm i create everyday. they are the ones who deserve honesty. they are the ones i don’t deserve. but my dishonesty is not only for this world. it is the only thing i can offer to myself as well. so again, i wake up in their arms with another lie ready on my lips. i hug them with with my true love and my false heart. i don’t try to make it right when they are in shambles again because there is no fancy way to put it, there is no beauty in what i do, there is no promise i would keep. there are only people who i leave. even when i can’t bear to miss one more person again.
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.
the broken-hearted know no love for anything or anyone that is not the one breaking their heart. they see through you. even when they say hello they almost get your name wrong, you can tell it from the look in their eyes. they drink and fill every room with songs that were not so hard to bear when they were just noises that radio made. they tell you in their drunken stupor that no one cares.
they say no one cares even when you call the cab, drag them home, hurt your hand in the struggle, scrape more than skin, lose more than patience, leave them on a bed not made for weeks probably, you don’t want to guess or know. so you close the door, climb down the stairs shut down the part of mind reserved for them, but remember how they have been liking and sharing too many dark poems, how those poems speak in their voice in your mind. so you climb back, remove every blade and knife and realize it is just the beginning. you feel exhausted by the inexhaustible list of things that can help end a life, that can serve as a full stop.
so you sleep on the couch or pretend to, till your head hurts from pretending. now that you want something true you call your love and tell him that you don’t know how to handle this, how to sleep and yet keep an eye on the one whom you suspect is waiting, waiting for you to close your eyes for a second to make an exit that doesn’t exist. he tells you that they are beyond hope at the same time he forwards articles that could give you hope. he tells you to sleep tight knowing you won’t.
when you wake up at the sound of tears being microwaved for breakfast, you see another day that won’t be right. you see them trying not to break yet breaking and abandoning everything around them so that their hurt can be felt by the world. they look at you and smile while they pour another glass toasting “another drink for the world that doesn’t care, another drink for the loveless me.”
the broken-hearted know no love for anything or anyone that is not the one breaking their heart.
I prod and push the glass slowly, carefully to the edge of the table, where your glass stands. At the edge where you place your suitcase, where you always tie your laces once again just to be sure.
That is the place you tell me to love when you think I might lend something of me to keep such place alive, to keep you warm while you keep the door open like the way the you like them to be.
This is the place you tell me to forget when the color of my skin doesn’t match the color of your new sky, when your new birds keep singing songs of ‘soulmates’ with better specification when it becomes your new caller tune, when you think of the best version of your life. You think of that too often, quite loudly for me to really forget anything.
This is all I remember of you:
“i never thought you were weak enough to need anyone or anything.” “i thought you were wise enough, i thought you were better than your gender.“ “call me. meet me. i am feeling down.“ “call me. meet me. listen to me, no one else does. only you have ever cared.“ “call me. meet me. i want us to end.“ “you are too much for me. you are too little in the eyes of anyone in this world.“ “you are so close to having my fickle demanding unfair love, why do you ruin everything by being yourself. i would have loved you for 2 more years, if you were not messed up.“
When I think of the glasses, of my life, of everything that I dangerously left at the edges just to be your equal, just to make sense of you- I am glad I have claimed back my madness instead of trying to understand yours. I am glad I do not have to live my life compensating for your weakness, calling it love.
I try to forget the monster so that I can somehow live. I try to forget the monster only to feel myself in his grip, only to see my skin turn into his. I close my eyes and try to forget the monster under my skin.
The air fills my lungs, and drowns me and now I remembering things that I shouldn’t I am remembering every moment of my incomplete death. Someone cuts a window in my chest, rips into pieces the words that shouldn’t get out. A rough skin holds me a bit too long with a bit too much force, a bit too much neglect. “ohhh…it was not love after all“, I remember thinking this as I closed my eyes wanting to forget this person who has taken half of my life, so easily. “For a brief moment I was loved“, I wanted to say this at least. I held on so long only for that sake. But now I must breathe in the air that I once thought I didn’t need as long as I had love.
I close your heart. I stitch you back in a same haphazard way I do almost everything in life. The same way I knocked down every clumsy fragile landmark that could have actually helped me at the end.
From your mouth I have come to know that my hopes are tied to the throats of my saviors. That you are disgusted as you see me sitting on top of sleepless nights as I help myself with another serving of self-pity that I won’t be able to digest. That I laugh a little too long at the every joke that the world plays on repeat, all the while the cruel thread that I am I cut the skin, I cut the voice, I cut the air.
“this what i am, change me in an easy way, see this is how i am hurting, why won’t you look at me when you said you wanted was the real me”
I say as I try to crawl back into the hide of your love.
“i will stitch you back, if i have hurt you. if you want to hear goodbye, i will say it a thousand times. please, please stop crying. please for once hesitate before you ask for the door out. ask for once if it was easy to take in your sorrows, your demons, your cold shoulder. ask for once how i have fared, how i have come this far, how am i letting you go, letting you be, after loving you so badly. “