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….”
On the tapered ends of my lips when I found your lips nestled near mine, I asked “Is this love? Is this your love?” and you answered “Obviously not.” So I told my heart to grow up. Growing up was the only way not to hurt.
On the spring infested roads, I found your hand on my melting waist.
On a nameless cold rainy day, I found the joy of walking towards you.
On a morning long gone, in my graceless fall into the mess of my mind, I came to knew the strength of your hands.
On the narrow pavements made for one as I walked behind you I realized how impossible it is to forget you.
On all such days that I made a point never to mark on any calendar, on all the days I tried to forget, I found the question again and again “Is this love?” Again I looked away from you to avoid hearing the answer that would hurt a lot more now.
I guess I never grew up or growing up only deepens my heart, only makes it worse.
Today you are silent and you don’t care. You have changed without changing anything about you. You don’t want to be concerned with should-be or could-be as all that matters is what is. what-is is a fact that needs no forgiveness from what-didn’t-come-to-be. You beg me not drag you down into the waters of the past, “They are ugly they are hard, they are things that we can’t have.” is all you say about the life we once had. what-didn’t-come-to-be is an ocean I must swim alone, an ocean that just grows and grows deeper and wider cause I can’t seem to stop hoping from you.
In the forms of “Renewal and Hope”, in the forms of “Happy Married Life Again?”, you fill the reason as “wandering and its joys”. So I burn up all such papers where you won’t look me in the eye and tell me the truth or at least some believable lie. I burn away this life where you wander in every direction but mine. Where I am not wrong for you, you just don’t want me to be the right. “It scares me”, you once said, “the thought of losing you.” How well you have grown, how far you have strayed from your words, from yourself, and from everything that you once happily called fate.
the most beautiful bitter bits of this world belong to me now. a car rushes by far away and i wonder about the girl crying her eyes out on the table not far from mine, or the middle-aged man looking lost in front of his home in my window, or the woman who left her phone and purse on her table on purpose and turned back at the door to look at something i couldn’t see. i wonder if they feel the same as me, if i would ever feel anything brand new, if i would ever have a feeling not felt by anyone in this world. even when i know how ordinary my extra-ordinary pain is, why does it feel so deep, why do i struggle to walk on these crowded roads why can’t i wear my sadness, my tears on my eyes and let this world be the audience for once.
I drowned the flowers one by one. The poison of beauty now runs through the rivers on this land, they fill his backyard in every season of rain. A child with his smile drowns another boat of dreams, the flood is a field of paper, the flood is all that is left of me. She stares into me, waiting for a reflection to surface. She walks into me to see where I end.
She tells me about the boy she can’t love and the boy she can’t blame as I dissolve and submerge the red gates of her house, the garden of forgiveness, her school shoes, all roads to her friend who doesn’t smile back anymore, the spoons that remind her of hunger for farthest worlds and people.
She asks me how deep will be this pain of losing herself, how long she would have to smile through this hate. I flow into her heart, wondering, if there I could turn back to the flower I was, if the end of my hate could be the end of her pain. If I could be her answer of hope.
the leftovers of last night fill my fridge. “never to be ruined” is what i would want to believe. but i do not have the patience to wait and see. i do not have many things in me- lacking of sorts, but not as deep in feeling. it is fine as long as it doesn’t reach me. it is fine as long as it doesn’t reach me. i step away and sit down it the unnatural unnerving glow of all that was delicious once. on the floor beside the broken fridge door i wait for my hunger or desperation to return. i wait to see what i loved in the love that is dying without me.
in my cramped world you find a place for yourself.
you become one with all the bright things that i collect at the cost of breaking myself.
as you smile, i wonder whether you have a thing for girls who have forgotten the taste of truth.
i wish you do. i would like to love you once, before you learn to hate girls like me.
this room was gift from my ex whose hobby was to be loved by the one he wrongs.
but it is a story for another day. my story with you is not that deep. you don’t need to know that my corners of my lips are ripped from smiling while being hurt, that they still hurt when we kiss.
it kills the mood. it kills me a bit, to be honest. all your words, the beautiful things you want me to have, want me to be they are enough for me to love you for a while. it is enough for me to forget the demon i see in you.
aren’t i an easy girl? one day you would hold that against me as well. i fall for you knowing that.
twenty-six steps away from the cold end, we stand together as if we are both looking at a foe we must defeat together. a child passes us by with a yellow balloon. how misplaced it seems, this child in this place made of storms.
this is something i don’t want to do. our steps will fade into the deep end of this lake while the mother in me would summon the face of this child as a hope of what i could have had if I could endure a little bit more.
an invisible small hand curls around my fingers as your voice falters and you mess up our last song. the ghost of your future, whatever face they may have, have also arrived. so i put back the sweater on and you check the calls you must return as the ones who intend to live on only do.
I think of the clothes that are too tight or too loose for me, of my skin that doesn’t like me the way it used to. How the mirrors in my home are hidden by the growing towers of books. I wonder what this says about me? I think of the fear that I feel when I am alone, the fear that I feel when I walk into happiness. I think of the kinds of fear that fill my heart. I count them for a long time but nothing happens when I finish counting. I wonder if knowing myself is really the first step to solving my life. Do I want anything to be solved? I count the people that who no longer speak to me and half way through I remember that it was me who had thrown them away first. Silence is my weapon, not theirs. I realize I need to always hold a grudge against someone to live with strength. I wonder when this strength became so important to me. I wonder when this love that felt like a lemonade in summer actually became a commercialized product with an expiry date stamped on it before it even reaches our hands. I think of my skin by which I am stuck to a world like this. I wonder why I pretend to be better than this world by saying such stuff? Why am I so into acting all deep and philosophical? I wonder why I love to call myself broken even though I hate to be seen so? Don’t misunderstand me. I do not want answers. Answers are painful and pointless, answers are a tasteless end to the struggle that otherwise makes my heart bleed colors.