in her two storey house my doll sleeps on her silk sheets with a knife resting beside her. it shines as if newly delivered and never used, as if sharpened hundred times, as if it has known the pain of blood every night, every night cleaned under the deafening noise of running tap water. the metal mixes with her fears, with her trembling hands. something again slips from her grasp. and now it is time for tears, and it will be soon time for cycles of search and paranoia. there is a time for every madness in her mind. there is always a calm wait before she reaches the next stage of hopelessness. there is always a party hosted at the dead end of her lives where she takes another drink, and finds hands filled with warmth and eyes that like the color of her healing skin, the burned tips of her tongue, and her swallowed words equally. but someone utters the wrong word, looks at her the wrong way, leaves the taps water, filled with smell of blood, running in her mind again, and again she lunges for the the knife that fits in her hand better than any hope and again she ends the song of her lover, again she wakes up alone.
I woke up in tears and I couldn’t go back to sleep.
As I slept, I felt things move around me, someone climbing down my window, someone flying out with unfamiliar and awkward wings. In my sleep I heard the unbearable wailing of my words that should have otherwise lying dead on my table.
I couldn’t go back to sleep. Because something was wrong. Someone was again changing me without my knowledge. Someone was again waiting for my gratitude to fill my lifeless words of thanks.
The moon was no longer a moon but an eraser waiting for me to sleep, so it can go on and erase everything that was left in this life. In the 3 hours I had slept away I had already lost memories worth 3 years so easily without even putting up a fight. Even if I didn’t know what should be here but no longer is, I somehow knew that I would always know that something is missing. I knew what that feeling will do to me. I knew how it would make me do everything that I regret having done. I knew all that because I have found myself so often at this point.
The point of forgeting – the forceful hands of God trying to pry open my hands, the painful flying away of my pain, the painful end of my love, the hideous and disgusting sight of my hands wanting something, anything to hold again at any cost.
I knew not to fall for this scheme again. So I walked upto the window, looked at all the sleeping rooms scattered in front of me, rooms where no one really slept. I looked at the concrete street below, felt its dangerous height in me, felt the distance between me and the true oblivion. I played with the dangerous power of choice before it frightened me with its truth. I heard someone laugh, before I turned back. I heard them back at their work as I found myself sleeping in the familiar bed of choices that never feel right. The only choice I want to believe I have.