The monsters brought their shadows as they climbed into my bed and I gave them stories that promised to make them human again. I had talked them into the idea of change and love and the broken petal that became a flower overnight in the embrace of a care so fierce it that nothing in the world could stay broken once they knew its warmth; just liked they talked me into the ideas of strength and hiding and the stones that teach the skin of blood, bruise and eventually a strength so stubborn that it can never be separated from our bodies, our sorrows, and our will to fight. But many hours and a sleep and a love later we still found ourselves staring at the broken windows of hope, and the stone of disappointments melting in the morning light like snow. Each half of our heart now wouldn’t stop crying and begging for the other half to change. Every part of us was now contending with each other on the monopoly of truth, the right way to love, and the safe ways to die. Our surety of self was evaporating faster than ever. We were being broken from inside, scattered for good, while our skins now knew the same battles of keep up a form, keeping our reality hidden. But now we could at least now sit in a room and look each other in eye and smile, knowing we could never be separate from each other. Knowing there is no hell or heaven we would go to alone, no forgiveness only granted to one. There was no sin or or grace in this kingdom of cries, there is no beautiful escape from this knowledge of life.
A summer comes alive, a branch flowers at the touch of my hand. My hands that were just held by you they find all dead things, all dark corners of life. There is so much of life in these hands that are now desired by you. There is so much that can now be brought back to life, so much that can stop hurting. There is no way to stop all this warmth from spilling out of me anyway. This world, this path of ruins, this history of us, existed for this moment maybe so that we may learn the texture of hope in each other’s skin, so that we may see the rebirth of light in each other’s eyes.
the towers are open to the public now. the crowd can now crow and row and climb to the better views- a softer light, a smaller distant world, the illusions of gods growing on our own earthly skin. this radiance was supposed to mean something else, something more, something new though. but these deafening footsteps, this meaningless chatter, these houses now growing like shrooms, the clothes now drying on every step, the resurgence of life and the blooming bruise, the grass growing, the herds living and dying in the shade of the tower- they only make me cry. even in their most wretched moments they still remain things i can’t have. the singular monument of hope and its playground of chaos and me, the only child who doesn’t belong, looks up at the promised sky, feeling a new hollowness creeping. feeling myself break for the same old things in new ways.
There is mercy in shadows, there is healing in light, and in the darkness? There is always something in darkness but we never know what. Only there I can invent, imagine and pretend. Pretend that this is my heart, these are my people, these noises that scare me are of ghosts, here I can see their teary eyes Pretend that the one coming towards me is a kind monster, that the bleeding has stopped that outside is spring, is a life better and wider than this Outside is always spring till I don’t open the windows, till I don’t look out. What a sad fragile relief this darkness is. A never-ending cycle of hope and pain.
I looked at the beautiful beautiful plate, the rice lit like pieces of paradise, the spice, the salt, a garden, a farm, a forest fit into morsels. I wanted to write about food and realized how it no longer fills me but what feeds me are the hands that make them. Carefully they serve the empty cold plate, fill it with love and color and texture and sprinkle “i love you” and “hope you are always happy” and “hope you are always full” without restrain, always, always in excess. But I am never full, and I am often not happy. I eat this world and their love always with half my heart heavy with ugly yearning for things that cannot be. But whatever good remains of my heart remains because they love, they care for me like this, without reconsideration, without restrain, always, always in excess.
The stones are stacked, a song is sung. The invisible hands and wailing throats are at work again.
The yard grows sand, grows salt and sun and water is what it waits for. Colorless blue is all that eludes the grand plan. And the wait for it is a snake –
a snake crawling through the alleys of heart, upturning graves and homes, looking into the eyeless sockets on walls, waiting for some light to illuminate something true here.
Wait is the girl who pukes at the mention of hope, and walks off the cold by lighting her own legs. Her feet that always survive miraculously, dance on the grassless yards yearning for blue.
The yard grows feet grows heart and fun. The yard is lit with the light of fried birds – this is the liveliest moment that all hands here know. What else can one do with life? What else can one do with death?
and hope shall play on the beaches that you drew. it will run along the cold melting lands, holding your hands, smiling with lips that curve like mine, that opens like yours. a song shall arrive in the air a laughter, a tear will arrive in our hearts again to knock, again to let in life. we will look at our skin that breaks in the same design and we will rejoice. we smile about something that was once insufferable. we will hold each other laughing about how nothing can make us let go, nothing can make us give up on this.
The abyss holds a celebration today. There is a relentless sound of chatter and song, of footsteps walking out of sync heading this way.
This way, this place where we have always been stuck a step before the end, a word before silence. This desolate space, where we live and breathe and learn to never rely on lungs or love, it is a festival here.
The balloons of hope are learning to fly in this heavier air. Small innocent hands are sculpting something better than hell out of all this fire and light. So much is possible today. Anything can be lived.
Today the empty cold sky looks down with envy at all that should have been unbearable. Today I look down at myself and see something lovable in everything that made my heart crumble once.
Even if this moment casts me to hell*, even if this is a seed of hurt that will soon be my new skin, as long as your spirit embraces me there would be only spring, there would only be morning birds, and silent roads filled with your sweet footsteps.