At my core is a sickness- something hideous and wanting attention, always wanting attention, your attention.
Your attention is like a net that catches everything of sea including me, but there is no one there on that broken boat of your body, to pull you or me out of these cold waters.
Outside these cold waters our dreams are running on pavements of romance. They run on our feets, they smile with our teeth but then you fold yourself around me and in a shiverng language remind me that they don’t have our hearts and maybe that’s why they have been spared our fate.
“warm” this word has become cold sitting at the base of my throat my throat burns and my everything else? my everything else -my pretty flesh and my ugly insides- who want me to be there and at the same want me gone. i guess they want me to change. this is my new low where my organs are my imaginary friends the only ones Ican talk to, the only ones who need me, the only ones I can disappoint, my new friends who are learning the weariness of living for me. I ask around for a lover who has a love for knives and tolerance for madness of all kinds. I hear a hundred thousand sighs in me when the new replacement of romance appears, asks me my name and digs his sharp canine teeth on the last bits of my happiness as a hello. The hundred folded cranes look more like ravens and the one who promises me an end is now my only hope. Now things are easy now that I can’t hear myself breaking now that I have this strange loud laugh to hide behind, this person stranger than me, taking up the blame of everything I have done, helping me hide from everything that I have killed in my life.
The wind is picking up. The white sand unlike water sinks everything too slowly. And so the shade less trees of eucalyptus become shadows that I learn to love. They become compass that knows no direction, but just piece this world to hold, the silent assurance that I am not yet lost, though my eyes can’t tell.
The wind is picking up. In the middle of this small storm, my careful hands writing the date on black board suddenly realize the need to be held. And so I fold and create a crease on another part of my face- the part that shows my heart too easily. Someone yells out my name and unknowingly they moor me to another violence, another need that I don’t want to carry in me.
After a long time, I feel like walking towards the calm unknown. The wildness in me that I had thrown away, is waiting for me. They were always waiting to tell me all the gossips of stars and fishes, how lost and alone they both felt to know that blue they had in common were totally different worlds.
The clothes that made me look somewhat beautiful I fold them with care, leave it somewhere you won’t miss. Their newness would be the new metaphor for sadness, sadness – yours and mine.
There must be a magic to undo this curse of our feelings. There must be an answer, a life that doesn’t necessarily need us to be together. I will ask the cruel fairies that live in dying breaths to make you forget me at sunrise, to make me feel something for you again, as my life with you ends.
Once the shade of the shutters are rolled down, once I am left on my own, reason and explanation rush in, try to cling and climb up the cracks of my heart, and the folds of my brain, trying desperately to stop me to reach out, to find me in the fog of fear.
But I am already far ahead, my hands reach for everything it could hold, everything it could break and hurl them at the window till it broke, till I could cry for the things that were robbed from me. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop hurting myself even when I lay half-broken under dangling paper curtains, even when all that I broke pierced my skin and hurt me back. If I stopped, I would again hear the steps that always walks over my world and reduces me to dust.