Another chance to get our high from the powdered dust of dreams, from digging desperately, getting closer to the voice of the demons we buried just yesterday, breaking nails and curfews to save the skins we can’t live without.
Another chance at making a home, choosing colors for our ceilings, choosing the sides we will sleep on, choosing not to be the ones we have always been. Another chance, another precious child to be broken, another angel dress to be painted red waiting for our hands, for our tasteless kiss. Choosing everything that leads us to lives that couldn’t possibly have been ours, couldn’t have been so wrong.
I know we are the only ones who can give each other chances. Chances – that we are so fond of. But do we need to call it love?
Though we have tried and tried and have run out of things that can be fixed. Do we have to call this happiness just because we have been told we must?
Do we have to ruin every word, every feeling that we have not felt yet, just because we fear we may never feel them otherwise.
the wafer breaks and crumbles my teeth find a red muscle to kill again my mouth bleeds but no iron strikes my taste so i wait for it i wait for my imagined pain to become real
i look at my hands my unsightly weak hands they are portals to my past self how they weighed its emptiness even when they held you how i knew that you won’t last, we won’t last and i hated myself for knowing it
i wonder if my skin, my lips gave you a premonition similar to that did you know that we would end up sharing every hurt and that it would never stop that the we would continue to run even when the dream ends every cut mine, every drop of red yours everything painful – only ours
a blue cloudy sky over a banana plantation. the only word to be heard – rebellion. someone is crying far away. another round of bullets leave the shaking hands of the one who can’t seem to stop crying. now he must die just like me. he rests his bloody head and its murky thoughts on me. in this last afternoon of my life i drift into bouts of darkness, without fear for first time, with the company of only his confused memories. will this be my last dream – his life? even in his head my homeland and its afternoons are beautiful. he has a face that he doesn’t want to forget, he has childhood home he can always return to but he didn’t, he regrets it now. he remembers the red color that his sister stopped wearing on her lips once her heart was broken badly. how he kept it with himself, as a symbol of happiness that he can’t have only for himself. there are ports on rainy days and buildings that became sadder at night. he once painted the window that would never open to him or anyone else for that matter. he cried when another nameless woman was found lifeless on the last page corner of newspaper and the window never lighted anymore. there is a cafe filled with few bombs that didn’t go off where the only one spared was him. he doesn’t want to be spared anymore. i wonder if he thinks that he can have happiness when he ends. i wonder if i will be able to smile on a rainy day, even if i am born again.
Another day flashes across my sky. Another moon rushes past my life. There are clouds that I have learned to walk on. There are days when I forget how afraid I am of this world. This is what my miracle looks like.
There are songs that never meant anything till you sang them for me. As I play hide and seek with your smile, I am forgetting the reasons to hate myself. I am forgetting things that I never allowed myself to forget. This is what my miracle looks like.
I dream of a one room castle. I find the idea of falling in love with this world something worth looking forward to, something worth a try. I find the courage to want the impossible. I find it easy to put my heart outside my body, in this world. Nothing breaks, nothing withers. Finally, my heart grows old with me. This is the miracle that walked into my life holding your hands.
My guarantees and my assurances do not come from my own voice, do not reflect even a iota of my feelings. They are not my words and won’t ever be mine even if voice them a million times. But you have to make do with these promises, the same way I am settling for yours. I cannot say “love me, i’ll make you happy“. I am the wrong answer, I have to lie, I have to cheat to be chosen.
If I was honest, if I loved you for real, I would have told you this:
“my words, these empty castle hallways, the mountains that never answer back, a mirror lost and flooded with darkness, the habit of taking up, stealing beautiful names the thrill of forgetting, every kind of messed up love, a sweeter hate to forget reasons they are all yours, but you are better without them”
I must hate you a lot, to hold your hand like this.
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.
Let me show you around.
This place that you think as mine
will soon be yours one day.
Especially because you will want to own this mess
more than you want to own my heart.
And though my eyes might roll
at the sound of the word “own”
but that’s just how things are.
One day we might yearn for each other’s glance.
And slowly with unsure lips we pray for more-
for some sweet words, for a secret to keep
for happiness of a day, for hands that don’t let go.
And soon with love drunk lips we demand more-
for reasons, for time we never seem to have,
for guarantees, for becoming better than what we are.
And that day when you will have all that you demand
and still feel like I have not given it all.
Come to this room, and see this mess.
These old clothes, old words;
these unwashed plates with leftover moldy attention.
And realize why I don’t want you here-
in this museum of what I was.
This is not the world I want to share with you.
Can’t we build a better one.