There is mercy in shadows, there is healing in light, and in the darkness? There is always something in darkness but we never know what. Only there I can invent, imagine and pretend. Pretend that this is my heart, these are my people, these noises that scare me are of ghosts, here I can see their teary eyes Pretend that the one coming towards me is a kind monster, that the bleeding has stopped that outside is spring, is a life better and wider than this Outside is always spring till I don’t open the windows, till I don’t look out. What a sad fragile relief this darkness is. A never-ending cycle of hope and pain.
You took my breaking hand and told me stories of a world where humans can be built again, where all that darkness that has seeped into me, into you can be cast away with a kiss and mornings with warm breakfast, a hunger of two. You placed your old sweaters beside mine and that dark cupboard became a symbol of an enticing spring that would never end.
Within all that beauty and warmth how was I to know that you were meaning to leave, willing yourself to make that exit, even when you welcomed me into your arms. How was I to know that this darkness in you, in me would continue to only grow in new directions making us fear not the breaking, but our breaking to be seen by each other.
I remember you waking up early and trying to put the clothes of “forever”, ironing out the new folds in your skin so you can continue to love this life made of dreams. I remember you placing my name on your tongue, in the body of your thirst in a whisper and then crying silently knowing you cannot love this anymore.
Yet I kept my eyes closed thinking of springs, and sweaters, and a home filled with two of everything. I kept my eyes closed giving you time enough to find the strength and the numbness to embody the person you were long ago. I feel your weight at the edge of the bed, I feel your sigh and your hands still filled with care thoughtlessly placed on me. Love is so beautiful, isn’t it, even in its end.
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.
At a bus stand in front of mall (that I have never been to) I learnt how to wait and how to live with disappointments without making a big deal of it.
In the bracket of an hour, I grew smaller than I ever thought I could be. “this is what love does to you, this is what love does to all of us”, all the voices in me lied. I was again weary of the love that I had chosen and the person I had trusted (“again” – the word that showed me the real reason why it would never work out).
I stood beside strangers on the crowded bus stand, awkwardly crying. I counted these not-so-scary strangers who were trying to become one skin. I pretended that I hated to be rained on as much as they did. I pretended that I didn’t mind their warmth, that my suspicious mind was not at work again.
Hours went by, empty roads faithfully stayed empty. I became more aware of the boundaries of my body I became aware of the person who would never come looking for me, who would look at the three hour long rain and still won’t wonder what happened to me.
We all stood there, pretending to be the only human in the group of zombies who had taken over a bus stand out of boredom, who stared at the wide road, the darkness beyond, and the emptiness behind as if their eyes were made to witness only this moment. I closed my eyes and hummed something, anything that could drown the presence of everyone who knew the sound of my breaking heart now.
At a bus stand, that could protect no one, we all dreamt of the worst- of the submerged road, a rain that will never stop, the cold that would take us down for days, children forever waiting, of the lightning we could hear but not see
of a love painlessly ending and a heart that shamelessly survived.
i remember your hands and their warmth like i remember the versions of me that were easier to live with (or so i think). the colors, their unnatural brightness, the scent of acetone always lingering on the tips of your fingertips, always hiding a sad rainbow (just my type). always a star that you forgot to rub and break, shined on your skin. under my lips, they shined brighter than my world. i swam to them as they stood in a world of darkness in the shapes of you and me. it is so odd that in my constantly breaking and building and growing brain and its images and meaning- everything about you meant love. i loved your flower hairpins and fake bullets and the magazines of the the people you would rather be and the window you glanced out of when didn’t want to look at me and your back against mine. it is odd that i could love you so even when i didn’t know why?
His face lit up with the death of every colorful explosion in the sky. He hates this sky on other days (among other things). Today he loves it, this darkness, this crowd, even me. (Maybe not me, but it doesn’t mean anything to me now. But in moments like this I am reminded of the “me” who would have wanted his love or at least be part of the world that can be loved. The ‘past me’ shakes off my hand and stands there looking at him as if he is her sky, but only finds the signs of deaths that have nothing spectacular about them. I stand there looking at my sadness, his sadness breathing the air and living some sort of life for once.) He stands there looking at the sky through my silence, through my awe, awe at his simple happiness. (How long has it been since he has loved anything with his breaking heart.) He stands there looking at the sky even when curtain of stars resurface, even when the screams of children dissolve. He stands there abandoned by the world and yet happy. (I stand there abandoned by him, by myself and yet happy)
a blue cloudy sky over a banana plantation. the only word to be heard – rebellion. someone is crying far away. another round of bullets leave the shaking hands of the one who can’t seem to stop crying. now he must die just like me. he rests his bloody head and its murky thoughts on me. in this last afternoon of my life i drift into bouts of darkness, without fear for first time, with the company of only his confused memories. will this be my last dream – his life? even in his head my homeland and its afternoons are beautiful. he has a face that he doesn’t want to forget, he has childhood home he can always return to but he didn’t, he regrets it now. he remembers the red color that his sister stopped wearing on her lips once her heart was broken badly. how he kept it with himself, as a symbol of happiness that he can’t have only for himself. there are ports on rainy days and buildings that became sadder at night. he once painted the window that would never open to him or anyone else for that matter. he cried when another nameless woman was found lifeless on the last page corner of newspaper and the window never lighted anymore. there is a cafe filled with few bombs that didn’t go off where the only one spared was him. he doesn’t want to be spared anymore. i wonder if he thinks that he can have happiness when he ends. i wonder if i will be able to smile on a rainy day, even if i am born again.
i am in love with the woman who sings and becomes the background of my every night.
i like to listen to her voice as she takes my every second keeps it out of my reach, teaches me some really suspicious ways to keep myself safe from the her demons.
she glows in the darkness that she sews only for me, for me to hold her hand the way she will never be held, the way i will never be held.
i hate to cry, i have cried for a long time for people who called me their option when i was out of earshot my tears are cheap, now all they do is make me feel equally cheap but the tears i shed for her life are beautiful the tears i shed for her (who feels like me) stops me from taking pills i don’t need.
another lover of hers sat opposite me few days ago. she looked so much like her. it made me wonder if i looked like her as well. i wonder she knows her lovers are running amok in the world that she paints with her pain. i wonder if she knows that we are catching all her fears, staying away from guys who speak like her ex, staying away from the patterns she has pointed out.
i wonder if she knows that we tell strangers “she sings well, she writes well” when we want say “she made me embrace the woman in me that i have been trying to kill for a long long time. she stood in my moonlight counting all the daggers that make her bleed every day, the same daggers that i fear to acknowledge, telling me about the exact number of days it takes to collapse again, about the face, her heart, and her womb that are for anyone’s taking, about her rage, her mind, and her will that she was allowed to keep. how she wanted to give up last night. how giving up can become a concept of life every easily but she didn’t want that, because she didn’t want to be the sad pathetic corpse of the woman that the world said she would eventually be.”
i am in love with the woman who wants me to be more than a silent background.
you, my love, my sky, my rain, my breaking heart, the lines of my fate on my aging hands, you, my collection of books that read me more than i read them, you, the beginning of my life.
i am beginning to realize the pain of dying, the prospect of being separated from the warmth of your back, from the home the turns into a hurricane that centers around you, centers around us, around the lightning in your heart. i am told there is only darkness where i am going. where i am going is a black hole of memories, there i will see you and not remember who you are.
I board the train that I could thinking, only thinking about the one I couldn’t. There are only tunnels, only darkness, no network, only cold metal that I rest my head hoping for my fever to come down, only windows that turn into mirror.
In those momentary mirrors I always look like someone on life support. In the crowd that no longer suffocates me I cling to the wires that fill my ears with the sound of past, with love that will never come back, with the love that I will never be, with everything I can’t bear to talk about nor forget.
Though it pains me to look at myself for more than 2 seconds, I force myself to withstand my stare. For if I take my eyes away from me I end up looking into eyes of strangers who twist and distort their faces asking for a reason they can understand or they end up looking away, their heart as fragile as mine.
We all act as if we can know each other by a glance, as if we would prefer to be the backdrop, the wallpaper than to find eyes that can actually see us, than to know one more human who is hell bent on proving the brittleness of our species. I understand their heart, their fear all too well. My skin remembers what their heart has forgotten. Though I don’t think anyone really forgets things like these.