“We must break our bones and lives to create another spark – this is what we owe to this world” the voice on other side of my dear old wall told me, told us all again. And because we must do something about it, we kept ordering another heart, another mindset, another way, another “desperate somehow” till our hands never felt comfortable with anything that is not new. Would we stop, could we stop if someone told us that we are more than our failures? I wonder even if I could believe those words I wonder if such words mean much in this world.
Even if there was another place to start a life that doesn’t run over me every morning on the tracks that keep changing their shape and place, tracks where I am just a new layer of metal, another layer of blood that won’t give up, that cannot die yet, saying hello to the ones who wake up beside me as if death is another sleep for which they cannot lose time. Even in that place, I feel I would suffer trying to define and find my place even if no one asks me to.
“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 broken-hearted know no love for anything or anyone that is not the one breaking their heart. they see through you. even when they say hello they almost get your name wrong, you can tell it from the look in their eyes. they drink and fill every room with songs that were not so hard to bear when they were just noises that radio made. they tell you in their drunken stupor that no one cares.
they say no one cares even when you call the cab, drag them home, hurt your hand in the struggle, scrape more than skin, lose more than patience, leave them on a bed not made for weeks probably, you don’t want to guess or know. so you close the door, climb down the stairs shut down the part of mind reserved for them, but remember how they have been liking and sharing too many dark poems, how those poems speak in their voice in your mind. so you climb back, remove every blade and knife and realize it is just the beginning. you feel exhausted by the inexhaustible list of things that can help end a life, that can serve as a full stop.
so you sleep on the couch or pretend to, till your head hurts from pretending. now that you want something true you call your love and tell him that you don’t know how to handle this, how to sleep and yet keep an eye on the one whom you suspect is waiting, waiting for you to close your eyes for a second to make an exit that doesn’t exist. he tells you that they are beyond hope at the same time he forwards articles that could give you hope. he tells you to sleep tight knowing you won’t.
when you wake up at the sound of tears being microwaved for breakfast, you see another day that won’t be right. you see them trying not to break yet breaking and abandoning everything around them so that their hurt can be felt by the world. they look at you and smile while they pour another glass toasting “another drink for the world that doesn’t care, another drink for the loveless me.”
the broken-hearted know no love for anything or anyone that is not the one breaking their heart.
hello? can you help me? can you tell me which way to go, which part of me to burn to reach the dumping ground where lay all the skins that humans have ever shed?
i have been living in my dreams for quite some time, where i am the old-me surrounded by my old-family, old-friends, old-strangers.
dreams that i can no longer have, now that i have been led back to reality, now that i am almost sane. i realize i am missing the life that never was. medicated consciousness is not enough to make me forget all that i should not remember.
i have heard that here i would find the lifeless skin of mine- the ‘me’ who never knew what lacking is. want to join me? never mind. i was not looking for company anyway. thank you for not helping, for telling me to grow up. thank you for making reality more disturbing than it already is for me.
I couldn’t look into the eyes of the people I knew all my life
or even people who never knew me.
Every morning I woke up
I felt I have left a part of me in the nightmare
of the last the day.
I was afraid that with every hello that I said
I will leave open a crack in my mind
for people to look into.
That all that I had written on paper
is printed on my skin.
I was afraid that if people knew of my condition
I would not have enough energy or excuses
to refute their point
if they put their suspicions in words.
I was afraid of lot of things
for a long time
and most of it was to be seen in a way
that I didn’t want to be seen.