“he left me” this is where I would have wanted everything to end, at “he left me”…simple and clean and yet carrying a sadness that can be forgotten or remembered as something that just exists. Exists not like floods but like rain. Exists not like a story of love but a story that had a possibility of some meaning. “he left me” could have existed in me, in this world, how words of no significance and no power exist.
But it didn’t end there. What he did was simple, but what he didn’t do those are the things that exists like flood, like pain that can exist without him. He left me a leaf and not a flower. And knowing this, even if I forget him, it won’t end the pain I feel at the sight of flowers, the anger the green fill me with, the feeling of being wronged at seeing everyone who gets both, while suffering less than me.
He left me a life that I am capable of living well but a heart that won’t ever feel at ease as long as I live wanting love for myself.
I wanted to play this winter song on the brightest day of spring. Maybe at least in that way I will be able to mourn for something that I should have been happy to leave behind. But the snowflakes in me drift into the world and become butterflies of someone else’s heart. All my songs now belong to sun, they belong to scent of summer fruits, they fall as unpredicted rain on the windows I closed just in time. Anyway, I had to learn this sooner or later. How can I keep believing in my own feelings, on the things that were supposed to never change, never melt after losing half of my winters to the green winds of change. As I place all my “old dreams that don’t suit the new me” away from my reach, I wonder if the only way to save the dignity of my old sincerity is to lock it way from my own skeptical, mocking eyes?
In the pool of lights, the green and yellow glitter swam in the air and you said – “This is what our life would be like. This is what our happiness would look like. This is the forever, this is the everyday love that I can offer you my love, in return for your heart. This grace is ours to keep, if you choose to revolve around me, just as I have chosen to see only you.”
As you held my hand and waited I realized all I needed was a word of affection, a promise of love, of any love I was capable of. That was all I needed to make you mine. But the easy lies, the half-meant overused words were nowhere to be found in me. I wanted only you and yet I couldn’t utter a ‘yes’. Of all the things I could do, I stupidly chose to cry. I knew my place in this world too well to admit wanting anything as lovely as you.
As you smiled and wiped my tears and picked the another happy song, I wished you would have said “If you cannot love me, better get ready for a lifetime of hating yourself” instead of saying “It is fine.”
the green pastures the white fences the perfect fake loving gaze the debts of kindness the half that never completes itself for once the ornamental lackings of my being the personal sun, the privilege to look away and never know the heart of one who can’t the greed such that I can’t stop receiving the ideals that I can live without, ideals that are already falling short to accommodate my monstrous growth, my falls from grace,
All these, everything that I say I don’t need is also all that I cannot give back.
It is easier for me to live, to be kind, to understand, to love with a life of hypocrisy, with a guilt weighing down my heart, with the smile that I can get only because the world is unfair.
It is easier for me to smile at the knife stuck in my back. It is easier to forgive when I cannot forget my own blood stained hands, my own reckless selfish heart.
“Long time ago” is a dangerous neighborhood. All its season are holograms of perfect world, the illusions of rain and snow and sun, the illusion of hearts still beating under the non-existent skin. The technician of this a weary magic lives beside the empty park in the middle of my heart. He knows the perfect days to make me cry, to make me see. He invents new people, new details. Sometime these are fake stand-ins for the what he has lost in his war against me, all that I intend to forget. Sometime they are what I failed to realize, people I didn’t get to love. Most days I can’t tell the difference between the words I have forgotten and the ones I will never hear again. This town has post offices with stamps of words I no longer mean stuck on its wall. There cars and houses and roads and rivers owned by people who will never die. They all gather on my birthday in the cemetery of one grave. They sit on the endless green grass with their picnic baskets, with the kids I will never have, with the pets I will never keep and look into the eyes that will never look at me. They smile knowing something I will never know.
In her loudest, happiest voice she told me about one of her near-death loves, how she wished her skin would stop keeping her alive. She laughed at how we both always find something awfully painful or ugly in common, how we should probably never call each other just to remind each other of the spite that lives in our blood.
I moved her lackluster glass of fake green mojito by an inch towards her and looked past her at the couple who sat closest to the sky. The wind that touched them called out to me again, reminded me about my trembling legs and my heart that didn’t want to give up yesterday.
I told her about the fall – my bad decision, my backing out again at the last minute- another really bad decision. I told her someone needs to lock me up before I take any more decision as I showed her my new skinned knee and told her in detail about all parts of me that were filled with pain even now only because of that one moment in which I wanted to live more than anything.
She walked towards the the railing decorated with hearts that won’t light and found herself a seat, placing her elbow carefully away from the mess that the ones in love left behind. She waited for me to follow her as I always do.
I stood behind her and felt a fear very similar to mine swimming in her mind. I wanted to tell her, it will get better. but I couldn’t. I wanted to believe in this, in this hope for better; if not for me, at least for her. And I knew she had nothing to say now because her throat was also crowded by the words she doesn’t believe. We are painfully alike even in our search for hope, even when we are searching it for each other.
i think this suits me most- to lose myself and yet look okay. god gave me a face that always looks okay even when i don’t want it to. (there have been only handful of days when i want to look as miserable i am.)
i wonder how it feels to say “do i look broken today yet? “i cried all night”. i have never cried at nights. i have never skipped a meal for my sorrow. i feed my heart too much fats and instant unhealthy happiness. i cut down my green trees and kill few birds, make a fresh trap that smiles through my gaping wound.
i live life the only way i can. look okay cause all parts of me are still working fine. god gave me a heart that doesn’t break the conventional way. i walk this world fearing this heart the most.
I covered up myself up- hiding the pieces, hiding the glue, hiding the knife close to my heart. There is too little time and so much to be disposed, so much has to be kept at the bottom of the stairs, under the sheets, under the hand that cupped my face so that no one could say with certainty whether I am laughing or crying or thinking about the hands that will never touch my face again or wondering why I can’t move away or keep away from mines and alligators and magma and my fearful heart and dark wells and palaces that never sink or get ruined completely and green roads of past and red destinations in my hands and love for colors that will not love me back and following the one with tearful eyes and the thoughts of some end, any end. All this extravagance, so that no one could see my see through my real feelings being eaten up by imaginary words and scenarios.
Her floor had always been the color of the season I remember this, only when I step into the mess of her life. The spring issues lay scattered like the flowers The pink, red, yellows, and greens, women who only know youth, women who only grow younger the kind of woman she wanted to be (what a small impossible dream) and she almost is. And now that she can never change would she be happy? When/if she comes across her own lifeless eyes in the missing posters would she be glad to be one of the “sad popular”? I shatter the home of her missing goldfish in my haste efforts to pick them up and put them out of sight- the bundles of glossy paper that my eyes can’t handle. I try to put them away, wanting to throw them away now that she wouldn’t mind, now that she won’t yell at me or anyone for taking away too much of her. I want to try it. i want to try, so she has no option but to stop me. “let’s leave her in peace” tells me my moral compass and my grief. “i don’t want to show her the kind of respect that only dead deserve” shouts back my anger and my love. I drop the heaviest bag in this world on her rain soaked bed. Her last dress, her last chocolate wrapper, her last bus ticket, her last mistake, her last breath everything spilling out, everything ruining the spring that I dreamed for her along with her.