only the lips of hope, the planets that break in sunlight, the dreams that never forget that they are made with love but also with vapors that can only dissipate and lose form eventually, slowly….taking my form with them into the void of love. only this would do. only this i can welcome. only this i can hold. only the lips of hope that won’t utter my name, the hands that won’t let me go, this violent landscape with the only green branch in this world. only those i know to be real. only that i know to be love.
The river rises, another flood is here and I haven’t yet learnt to swim. My friends are again at my door. They knock, then they start crying. They tell me about the happiness I can’t see, they try to predict what you would have wanted me to be, and all I can do is laugh at it all.
My laugh, it must be as frightening to them as my tears now. For even as they send me pics of kittens and quotes, and stories saved from fire, stories filled with hope, I hear their panic from the other side. They know that just taking your name had undone the strength they tried to feed me for months.
And since now they can’t breathe everytime I close my door, everytime I refuse to speak – I am another hell to them. And since I can’t let them break over me – they are another pillow pressing on my face.
I hope for them to let me own my sadness. I hope for them to not see and not know my pain. But they do, they feel so much of me that I have to open the door, that I have to let them hold my hands.
I tell them that I’ll live no matter what and they still tell me that it is not enough- they want me to be who I was. I can only smile at their cruel hopes for me.
I have to sing and keep singing, have to keep begging people to dance within my heart, within the confines of these bricks, with the parts of me that can’t die and parts of me that I wish I still was. I have to keep inventing reasons and occasions I have to paint every meaning within me in the boldest loudest colors.
Because the moment it all stops I will hear the shouts again. There is no silence in this world. Outside, everyday the fearful children of a fearless god shout his name again and again. Asking for reason, for rain, for roses carrying their name.
I also once stood there, in the dark corridors, on burning roads asking god to love only me, to hold my hand, to save me alone. It is a very dark road, the one we take to find the light that will only belong to us.
And there is only this home of blindness far away from all the crying and ceaseless hoping where I can use these eyes of mine for something more than holding and spilling tears, where I get to sing for the god within the song. I worship these walls that hold me in my place. I worship all of your laughs, all the steps the never stop.
But I am still afraid because tears still come easy to me, because even this borrowed light whispers the name of one who I still hope to reach. The one who should exist somewhere outside these walls. But I can only be here in this world of his if I don’t run to him all the time. I can be his, without falling short or falling apart, only if I substitute what he has made for what he is.
The lights die out one by one. The dark streets come alive, I crush the melting remains of abandoned snowballs under my feet, as you sidestep once again to let the flower stuck in concrete grow a bit more. I remember how you called such things ” kindness for my own sake”. It always makes me laugh when I look back at my own understanding smile, as if really knew what it actually meant.
Another cold gust of wind touches me and reaches you few second later and I recall why I never liked to walked behind you, why my heart couldn’t bear to see you any more, why the excuse of love wasn’t enough for me. It all comes back to me – all my pathetic emotions, as you fold a bit more into yourself, your shoulders almost disappearing.
Stopping in your tracks, you let out another sigh, and just when it seems you might give up and decide to break. You don’t. You keep on walking as if nothing can phase you out.
So I don’t follow you, cause your strength has always broken me more than your tears. Always when you let me have the right to complain and cry, I looked at you and begged you not to make me another one of those who can’t live without your sacrifices, who can only speak of your love in terms of the wounds you were ready to accept by their hands.
As I see you walk towards a home I won’t ever know, a part of me imagined – you turning back, looking at me with those kind eyes of yours, holding my hand. I am relieved when you didn’t. I am fine like this, with this manageable sadness that I feel when you leave me cold in the same world I abandoned you in.
It is not that I love the cold doors of strangers nor do I want answers to the obvious, uncomfortable questions. I am restless because everyone else is calm. If only they would fret a bit, look puzzled, cry for unknown reasons once in a while, if only they also had the same questions that I do or at least admitted feeling the same way just to keep my heart, then probably I wouldn’t feel so shabby and so incompetent when I stood cluelessly in my life, trying to act as if I know what I am doing. When all I am doing is watching things crumble and break. When all I am doing is holding in my tears waiting for someone to cry first.
“The sky is your canvas”, the book to all ailments said, “there is a joy in filling it up with life.” But as I finished my 157th sketch, as I finished my 300th one, as I finished the one with no count attached (the one I called “the limits that were stronger than me”), as I write over all that I had drawn, as the clouds dragged themselves painfully crawling to some better place, like everything else in my life the sky remained unchanged.
And when I lost my hands to fate, to slow corrosion, to the burden of creation, to the lady in white who couldn’t even lie that “it won’t hurt”, to the painful work of making up things that I want, things that would want me back, or at least won’t walk out, to the hunch that said something is seriously wrong with the kind of life I have.
I wished for the man in the sky to wake up and get to work, to make me some rain, to drop an ocean of crystal on this world, to paint a heaven on this cheap sky of this miserable man.
Because trying on some days, on most days now, feels like living against the wishes of the world. I can’t help but break a bit, cry a bit even when things are right, because they right only because of my efforts. Can you give me something that I don’t have to work hard for, something that was made for me, something that I can keep. A thing, a person, a sign that I can hold in my hand that tells me that you want me to be happy, that you want me to smile, that I am not abandoned after all.
It snowed all night. All night I created stars for your eyes. I bore the weight of the roof as you slept, cried, ate, smiled, memorized dial tones, stared at me like you stare at screens with static, paused expectantly as you told me the story about your friend who is filled to brim with sugar and seems bit odd when he tries to smile a little bit more always, filled me with a momentary fear of whether you saw the corners of my lips tearing up everyday.
I felt again the illusion of love breaking, its crack trying to find my spine. Again you ran to me, trying to hold me, trying to look over all the parts of me that you don’t understand.
I slept and felt the snow of years settling on me. I felt your wings fluttering around in my head. I held the hands of god in my tiny fingers and said with a smile, “make me a flower, if you can” “make me something that is beautiful in her eyes” “give me another sorrow, something simple, something that can be understood and loved by her” “let me look at her, without feeling the breaking in my heart”.
As I climb, my steps remembered the shoes I once had the ones that didn’t hurt so much and how hands of mine that hacked through them just to become my own person, some sort of grown-up. I climbed over the yellow soft dress and the light that it caught just to get this, this body that looks held together but is not (this body knows only how to fall apart), just to get few more shadows that ruin my beautiful wrist with their persistent passion. They claw through me, to see how I am made, how I look and speak once I break. A stranger once left me at the bottom of a black pond and called it love just so that I won’t cry and in return I called him my love just for few breaths, just for my life. I climbed over the right to mean the word “love” thereafter and the dream of knowing a heart other than mine. I breathe as if I have sinned yet I walk like I am happiness and determination in flesh. I cling to all the bitter bits of this world as if they would ultimately save me. I climb over, get over, and forget so easily, so bitterly that each feeling of mine is just a shade of resentment.