Your frail arms,
the waves and curtains of your skin,
these carved brackets hugging your smile-
give them to me.
Place a shadow of such blessings
on the weary crown of my future.
Tell me the story about
your bent bow, about your magnificent spine
that sings stories about the lost string,
about the vanishing tear-stained targets.
Teach me how to grow.
Teach me how to live.
as you always did
with your overflowing love
and your running out time.
Tell me how to love this world
even as I leave. Teach me how to love
this eventual inevitable fallout of elements
that make up my body and mind.
Hold me tighter in your sleep,
leave me a bit more of you,
so that I won’t be starved,
so that I don’t grow bitter,
till the time we meet in our new skins.
Even there I will carry in me
the grace of the life you have lived.
Welcome me when I come to you again.
All the wildflowers of our soul,
all the drops of yellow suns
dissolve in the air of shrieks.
One by one we loose ourselves.
The moments of despair and pain
are not only ours now.
When I speak,
When I am silenced,
when I accept suffering,
when I am trodden upon
thousands wake up
with bruises they do not deserve.
How should I live?
How should I forgive?
Knowing my pain is someone else’s as well.
allowing this world
to enter your mind
is an isolating experience.
Only I can know
how something enters my mind,
how my mind cannot make sense of it,
how I close my eyes to new light,
how I give up
and let this experience take over me.
We can look at a flower together.
But only I can know
what it means
to look at this flower as me.
I can show you my playlist,
I can tell you the quotes that stay with me,
I can even give you my heart.
But at the end
all I see,
all I feel
can be only felt by me.
I want to write about the boring,
about all that is insignificant,
about the trust that lasts,
about the promises that are kept,
about the things we don’t have to beg from god.
I belive there must be some things in life that goes as we wanted to,
that didn’t take our effort, our prayers to go right,
that fell into place so naturally
that we didn’t even notice the ease they gave us.
The boring that is neglected, that is mocked
must be a dream for a person I don’t know of.
The days of charity and donation,
the realization of the lack that we don’t experience
hits us only briefly,
gives us only short lived sadness or gratitude
and a bit of pride (that has a little longer life)
in ourselves for venturing out of our boredom
to witness the lacking of others,
to distribute a bit of what we have in abundance.
But I am not that changed,
I am not that affected.
Tomorrow when I wake up
I will forget
about the stomachs that are never filled,
about the dry glass and throats,
about the darkness that night brings,
about little curious eyes that will never see a book.
Tomorrow, again I will shamelessly
write about my need for love and acceptance.
But that is how I am
and with time I have learned
not to feel guilty for being like this,
for that is the kind of human I was made to be.
I will only be bothered
by the small bruise on my face,
the small cuts on my hand,
even if I know the existence of greater pain,
for that knowledge is not an anesthetic .
I am a petty creature like that
and I can only really feel my own loss.
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.
There is nothing more confusing
than the love of people who
never really known you.
Who have always been caring
without being affected.
There is nothing more heart-breaking
than to doubt the intention
of people who actually take an effort.
There is nothing more difficult
to trust someone against the proof of experiences
for reason as small as a smile.
To be thankful, without being bitter.
Mornings I’m up, I sit up and gaze,
To follow a train of thought, that I can’t even trace.
Afternoons are dull, with stillness all around.
I eat and lie down listening to some songs,
Or sometimes I doze off reading something,
It drowns all the voices in my head, some peace that brings.
Evenings, as usual are spent in laughter with a tea,
As sitting there I try to convince myself of what I really feel.
Its nights that are horrible for me,
As I realize how futile has my day gone by,
How I was running blindly in every direction I found,
Just to return to what I was running from.
Not to confront the loss, and its pain,
And all efforts to ignore them gone vain.
As I find my thoughts going back to then again,
To the reality there was and only loss that can be,
For when you hurt me, and when you lied,
And when you faked grief when I cried,
When you spoke about me behind my back.
Laughing at my pain, and discuss what all I lack.
When for a stranger you left me all alone.
I realized I’ve lost you now.
Maybe I’d lost you long ago,
Or maybe I’d never lost you,
for how can I loose what I never found.
So as these mornings, afternoon and evening go by,
I do not grieve for you, nor I ever will,
And it is not for you that in sorrow I lie,
Nor it is for you that my heart is bitter and still,
And I’ll never shed a tear, for the kind of friend you were.
And never in my lifetime would I wish you were here.
But my only loss, only sorrow is what I’ve really lost,
My real loss was the loss of trust in myself.
And loss of my carefree trusting mind.
And loss for the heart that cared and believed
And losing a part of me, that I can never find
For all I’ve suffered, you were not worth this loss,
And I did not deserve this pain,
To try to find what is not there,
For my mornings, afternoons and evenings, can never be mine again
Some men break your heart in two,
Some men fawn and flatter,
Some men never look at you;
And that cleans up the matter.