A face looks out of me- that damned face of love that never gives up. It writes down histories, and diaries, and fears of people it wants to heal. It never speaks aloud the hopes of gentle gaze it secretly wants out of them. It wants a lot many things out of them to name a few, I guess. Just how it wants a bit too much out of me.
It wants me to learn new tricks to entertain, new specs to list out just in case my heart isn’t enough. It wants me to stay close, and speak sweeter and hold people more dearer. It wants me to walk back to offer smile to the ones who didn’t want to be held dearer, at least not by me.
It wants them to know how they will always dazzle even if they fall short of their own expectation, even if they find a love whose meaning won’t have a place for me.
I hate being the one losing sleep and respect and my ability to function like a person with one heart or have even one complete part of me left for myself.
But I love that love hungry being in me. I love the intense truth it knows about itself. I love how, when I cannot fall asleep, it crawls out of me and sits by my side to tell me about the another stranger who once made me smile just by existing, even if their existence was not for me, even when I exist just fine without them.
I crawled to the window in my dress torn by the claws and cries of people who live in my nightmares. They like clean living rooms, dark courtyards, and cars with slashed tires sitting in their garage. They have “broken hearts” written down in forms as their identity and broken chandeliers swept under their bed. They crouch down and look at me as the broken lights shine red, as I see myself bleed beautiful rivers, as my silent scream become winds, become ripples, becomes the face that will forever make me cry. They smile and ask me “What do you wish? How do you want to be saved?” while someone else burns the bed that I am crushed under and asks me “Is this the what the warmth felt like in your mind?” They drag me out into a forest, where under the brightest tree of hope, they stuff darkness into my throat, into my mind and ask me “Do you still feel empty?” They are unreal and of unsound mind. They tell me living in me makes them so. They wave goodbye to me with a smile, offering me a sweet candy for my silence and understanding It is raining when I open my eyes. I breathe in the world where bleeding and burning is irreversible, where it would lead to an end of some kind. I crawl to the window in my torn dress and my exhausted skin and find myself staring at people who used live in my nightmares, people who look more real that the living me. People who now own more than just my dreams.
And when we had run out of pleasant things to talk about I asked him things he didn’t ask me, things he didn’t want to be asked. But I was bored of the all this peace, all the ants that crawled into him, into me maintaining separate lines, to reach the places in us we both didn’t want the other to see. I guess I wanted him to be different, I had more than enough people who wanted to love me without knowing me. I guess I wanted to be difficult. For once I didn’t want to be the easy conversation, the easy way out of pain.
I asked him when the waves of life try to reach his foot, what does he do? Who does he think of? Whom does he drown in his mind every time, every moment to avoid knowing what he really feels? Does he almost hold that hand, does he almost save the one who will kill him first, who has always killed him without hesitating?
He seems to be the type who would do stupid tings on repeat at least thirty times before giving up on the one whose love didn’t surface even after the thirty wounds, or bloody hands, or hundred considerations. He looks so breakable and so happy I wonder if in the hollows of his heart where his anger and disappointments hides, are there flower beds of daisies, and a heart that can never be broken?
Is this how I look- like him, plagued and haunted by beautiful dead thing? Is that why he smiles at me without saying a word? Is that why I can’t smile back?
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.
Before knowing the alphabets of your name or mine, I learnt to make you smile. I pluck another flower that makes me sneeze every time but the silly pathetic me smiles as you smile as I crawl to you losing balance, losing something similar to heart, as I dress you up in a mountain of petals I clenched too hard hoping you would never move away from me. How you dozed off as I made myself sick with my ambition. How you were still sleeping as your mother took you in arms brushing away every piece of my care. But it is better than the days I woke up with only the traces of my feelings, my cradle of flowers without you in it.
“You have changed”, I want to say. But the more you change, the more familiar you get.
Now you look like the girl who lied she is my friend. You look like the boy who crawled into my skin only to confirm that I can feel the hurt just as he can. You look like my hand that loves to strangle my heart. You look like the sad unwelcoming roads to my breaking home. You look like the one who desperately want to be remembered for leaving me in parts.
I want to say that I loved someone else that couldn’t possibly be you.
But you are a person of this world, you are the same as everyone else. You sit here with me hoping that you weren’t mine, hoping that I would look familiar to you if you looked long enough.
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. “
i crawl into another embrace, scratch the surface of my fake love to find something true. hopes. hopes. is this what they call hope? it must be.
the coffee turns cold as my story ends. again i am wearing a skin i have stolen. the one breathing beside me has a knack for sad stories recited by happy girls, of being a knight to one he doesn’t have to save.
me, i love drowning the world in sadness (the only way i can take anyone’s breath away) i love leaving loose ends, leaving people behind- i call it the fear of being left behind. i have a list of similar innocent motivation for every mess i make, for the mess i have become.
when he leaves i throw away the coffee he never drinks. i get over my urge to be seen for what i am. i dip my fingers into another color that he might like, or at least remember.
There is a wall of flowers before her. She looks at it as if they are a softer kind of firework, a firework in reverse, the colors leaving the petals, crawling deep into itself, leaving the color of the inevitable sad ending that Nature always ends up falling for, after a series of boys who lied to her about a forever in their mellow green kisses.
A lesson on subtraction for a girl trying to learn about the reasons and the ways a void like hers is created.