You look at me and I look at you the way broken things look at the hands of an angry god, the way complete beings look down at things that can never be their equal.
You and me, we take turns, learning to feel pain, to give pain reaching for the light in each other’s eyes, making copies of each others memories and spilling the ink on the originals.
You and me – we are children left alone unsupervised with this steel instrument of love. We now know of the blood and bone within our skin, thanks to this blade. We now know how to keep distance when nothing keeps up apart.
When we lose our color, our teeth of milk and cruelty, when the blade loses its shine and looks like any other rust of this world, only then we know the pain of having walked past a life we could have had, the journeys we could have walked, the meaning we carried in our selves for each other sake, the meaning we never looked up, never cared for.
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.
I prod and push the glass slowly, carefully to the edge of the table, where your glass stands. At the edge where you place your suitcase, where you always tie your laces once again just to be sure.
That is the place you tell me to love when you think I might lend something of me to keep such place alive, to keep you warm while you keep the door open like the way the you like them to be.
This is the place you tell me to forget when the color of my skin doesn’t match the color of your new sky, when your new birds keep singing songs of ‘soulmates’ with better specification when it becomes your new caller tune, when you think of the best version of your life. You think of that too often, quite loudly for me to really forget anything.
This is all I remember of you:
“i never thought you were weak enough to need anyone or anything.” “i thought you were wise enough, i thought you were better than your gender.“ “call me. meet me. i am feeling down.“ “call me. meet me. listen to me, no one else does. only you have ever cared.“ “call me. meet me. i want us to end.“ “you are too much for me. you are too little in the eyes of anyone in this world.“ “you are so close to having my fickle demanding unfair love, why do you ruin everything by being yourself. i would have loved you for 2 more years, if you were not messed up.“
When I think of the glasses, of my life, of everything that I dangerously left at the edges just to be your equal, just to make sense of you- I am glad I have claimed back my madness instead of trying to understand yours. I am glad I do not have to live my life compensating for your weakness, calling it love.
This where my moment of collapse, where my undoing starts. Me, sitting in front of something that I used to love, something that used to carry a part of me. Me, in front of bookshelves, looking at the list of movies that broke open my heart, moving my hands over the quotes that I took pains to scribble on everything I own, half-hiding behind the high dining tables, not really eating, not really listening, making cracks on my glass skin with the fork that has forgotten how food feels, hesitating to touch that reply button, hesitating to hold his hand. “i am empty, i can’t find in myself the will to love anything in this world”, I want to say. But it would be so unfair to break another’s heart, only because I have lost mine. But won’t it be equally unfair to give someone hope with my meaningless smiles.
I tell myself that I have nothing worth saying and that no one wants to listen. I know this because I have tried to speak my mind and in best cases I have been told that my mind is not that right, that the experience that I speak from doesn’t exist for them, so they will unanimously refuse to acknowledge my narrative. Or they will smile at me and look down at me. But I am not their adorable kid who had got her alphabets mixed up. I am a person equal to them, and my level of ignorance is equal to them even if it is not about same things.
I am a person equal to them. I am a person equal to them I am a person equal to them… I have to keep repeating it or else I might just forget. Maybe I have already started to forget because these days I speak in small sentences, waiting for affirmative nods. I find myself reading everything that they will approve of. I find myself voicing what they want to hear. I see myself calling myself stupid before they call me one. I see myself nod understandingly at everything I disagree with. I hear the arguments inside me against the favorite opinions of everyone and they stay inside me, and everyone is happy.
“You are too young to know better, to know reality. You are too girlish to see the world for what it is. You are too sentimental to speak logically.” I know the wall of judgement I will run into if I let myself speak.
So you may actually want to listen and you might not be like others. But I can’t bring myself to speak about what matters to me. Cause either I will be wounded at my weakest spot or I will end up hating you just for being like everyone else when you ridicule me, interrupt me to correct me and try to tell me what I should be feeling instead. I won’t give you a chance because I can’t take chances with our friendship. I won’t speak up because I don’t want to feel more inferior than I already do.
Nothing scares me more than people
who seem to know a lot about world,
who seem to know every answer
to every problem.
Especially when the answer
is that the weight and blame of this
only lies on shoulder of few.
And answers mostly revolve about how
not every one is equal.
I urge those people to make their homes in these
boxes of labels that they use as weapon
against people who were just living their own life
and live their life avoiding any thing
that might break their illusion of self-righteousness.
For that is all they have.
Nothing scares me more
than a person who thinks
what he thinks is best for the world,
who thinks that emotions and lives
are disposable things,
in front of the grand plan he has
for himself and this world that only he supposedly owns.
All sorrows don’t have the same weight.
And sometime its weight
is not related to the reason of the sorrow,
but on the person who endures it.
And there is always something worse
that could happen in everyone’s life.
Our sufferings may not be equal.
Our tears may not be of same hue.
a heart that hurts
must feel the same.
A mind that’s lost,
the whispers of blame
must feel the same.
When you don’t belong to earth
and the sky doesn’t want you
and you know not where to go.
Come to me.
I will hear you.
I will hear all you worries
that seem too childish to be spoken out.
I will hear the sound
of your deep breaths in the music of your sobs.
I will let you live your grief.
Grief to have lost.
Grief to have found .
Grief to simply exist.
Whatever it may be
and you don’t have to explain why it hurts.