I could no longer taste the nameless fruit that I held in my hand, that I hid in my mouth a moment ago. I fled from one home to another. I sewed my heart to another even when it pained. I tried to find myself back, pry out my heart from the cage of love even when I was happy. I wanted to miss someone. I wanted to call out a name, so that my life may not feel empty. Since I had many names on my lips, I came to know that the emptiness of my life came not from the lack of people I loved but by the lack of people who treasured me back. So I let the fruit fall to ground. I let my hunger gnaw at the my own skin. I forced myself to think of myself, by hurting myself, by asking myself to forget.
As I walked around the city all night, as I put my tears on display on empty roads, I realized nothing has changed. Standing there I knew that I am okay if the world sees me like this. Even if the streets gets lighted I can continue to cry, I can be pathetic. I was fine being pitiful in every eye but yours. I feared how you might not like all this. And that’s why I had to show you what I looked like when you are not there. I knew I had to find your door and wake you up from this dream that could surely not be love. But as you finally opened up the door I found myself smiling again. Confused whether I am trying to hide myself again or you are all I need to forget my sorrow.
I bask in the sunlight of borrowed memory. I grieve in the arms of your dying words. I find another piece of myself to send you away with and I wonder why I feel empty even though you have given me your all.
I am writing this poem because for an hour my mind is butchering every beautiful thing in the world to get that one line that can finish the thirst of this page. And nothing beautiful remains beautiful when such desperate hands hack at it, cut it into grotesque chunks and then fail terribly when trying to stuff them into these mascots figures, these alphabets. I call this a poem because I can call it nothing else. I call this a poem because years ago a naive me reached the conclusion that the only way a moment can live on, a feeling can be recorded, without the burden of the reason of its existence is if it becomes a poem and because the current me doesn’t know how to deal with myself, the current me knows nothing but to write, and has nothing of substance that moves it’s heart. And I fear myself for the ease with which I refer to myself as ‘it’, only because I became useless for few minutes. I end up documenting my fear of becoming empty, of becoming blind, and calling it a poem. I end up felling helpless in newer ways and I am forced to call it a new beginning because giving every sorrow a beautiful name is all that I capable of.
Another happy news floats in the periphery of my vision.
Though it holds the love of those
who have found something to love,
something to live for-
it makes me restless.
I want to open these envelopes and mean it when i tell you how happy I am for you, but I am not.
I am sorry but I can’t be happy for you
because in your every word
that you have inked with excitement,
I am reminded that
I have never seen these same color in my own life.
When your letters find me, they find me too broken. I am sorry, I have lost too much of me already and can no longer give you anything but empty words.
Live well dear. Live your dream far away from me. It will keep your happiness intact and my bubble of ignorance unharmed.
One day (if ever) when I am no longer walking in my own darkness, I will find you and I will try to be the friend that you deserved to have. But till then I can only keep these letters unopened and my happiness for you undelivered.
Stay here with me.
Everyone else has forgotten you dear.
it is only me that carries you everywhere it rains,
everywhere the Sunday morning starts with empty table and aching heart,
everywhere the number blinking in my phone is not yours.
It’s only me
that wakes up in this nightmare of life
clutching what should have been your hand,
that walks into every shops that would have caught your eye.
It isn’t easy to walk into stores
and think of your absent giggles
as my only future that would never arrive.
It isn’t easy
but I can do it.
I can keep a space for you
everywhere I go,
I can keep aside an extra plate for you.
I can live as if you are here
if only you’d stay hidden with me.
They have forgotten you dear,
their thoughts are scared to linger around graves.
It is only me that calls out your name.
that I can’t read
is not abandoned on the shelves
has not been moved to the lowest rack
because it is bad.
But because so much of me
is filled in it.
So many words from my heart reside on those pages,
that I am bound to question
if this is the reason I felt so empty for years.
Someone sat up all night
looking into me,
taking away my pain and shame
to relieve me of this weight.
But ended up taking more than they should
and didn’t know any other way
than to send it back to me in a book.
I wish I could go out
and burn every copy of this book
in every bookstore on earth-
this book that I can’t read myself.
But I must keep it with me always
so that if I am silenced forever
even after I leave
at least someone
would see that I tried
when they open this book
and see the crossed out names
replaced with mine.
The city of her dreams is always colored in brown,
always covered with drops of unending rain.
The kind of rain that makes the air cold
only to make her aware of the warmth of love within her.
The kind of rain that makes her want to sleep with a smile.
Whatever it looked like to others,
there was comfort in the owning a dream that was only hers,
in the sky that was never empty,
in the heart that is never parched.
It doesn’t matter how sad the onlookers feel.
It doesn’t matter of they can’t see, can’t understand
why she loves what she loves.
The morning drips from the hands of clock.
Soon there will arise a sky that tries its best not to look empty.
Soon people will walk about the streets
forgetting the sun that they had been waiting for,
forgetting the night they struggled to survive.
I almost collide with a person like that, like me,
who try their best
that their forgetfulness seems as genuine as possible
and rely on their faith that no one will be unkind enough
to give voice to what they see and know.
The longer I live, the aversion
I once had for all fakeness
is replaced with some kind of pity.
I looked up at the confused giants
and puzzled at their ugly voices
and deformed faces,
how they hold onto stones and branches
how they hold onto papers,
and threw each other off cliffs.
But what made me sadder was
that no one who was thrown off those cliffs ever died.
They just keep coming back
looking a bit different, speaking more funnier
and acting more mean
and throwing each others down again.
No one ever died here.
Everyone lived and everyone wanted all this to end
but no one wished it more than me.
I was made to believe that the little blood I have in me
is their doing, is their gift.
I wonder how much time it would take
to empty myself from the traces of this violence
and memories of people I grew up calling my family.