to be human is to float like a single cell life devouring pieces of digestible meaning, splitting and cutting oneself without blood loss into something more manageable. to be human is to lose your legs to the ideas of nation, families, and lovers. to be a human like me is to look at herbivores, carnivores, omnivores, scavengers… and wonder what hunger feels like. it is to order love at every other restaurant waiting for the taste of pain to grow on me, while i mimic strangers stranded on far away tables and hope what i am learning is not another dead language.
i am a girl who reads too much between lines, especially yours. and your words, they were cold but they were warmer than the pages they were written on. and since i wanted to love you i tried to see your world as one big adventure even when my heart was filled with fear. i tried to do things that might make you happy, to say the words that might put you at ease. though i suffered greatly, being with you made up for everything, or so i thought. but in the hope to be loved i bent a little too much forgot where to stop, i went overboard with the idea of sacrifices and promises and forgot to look at the blood and life i had lost.
“one day he would grow up, one day he would realize, one day his love for me, would actually feel like love“- were the words i lived by. but isn’t it pathetic that even when i have no use for these words, even my soul is more sore than alone, at night when i count the pieces of me, and the numbers just won’t add up, the thing that i am most sad about is that i was so easy to love and yet you couldn’t.
Unlike your descriptions, the green doesn’t wait for the sun. It doesn’t know what waiting is, what the word ‘sun’ is, it doesn’t even know that you are the its spokesperson.
I am not coming at your throat dear, it’s just that I feel, as time passes that you see me more as that green than your woman.
You cut my sentences and give me used bottles of perfumes, of love that I must wear. The only thing you tell me about your day is how women dote on you and place you first in the list of men to seduce.
I remember I once said, “please don’t tell me, i don’t want to know” and you glared back, lectured me on openness and honesty and strength of love.
“i don’t want to know” I said it only once, because my I was afraid to say it ever again. And in my unreasonable fear, I understood that in this life of pretend, I had also begun to see you as another sun, even when you are not.
So, I am not coming at your throat dear. I am try to free myself from your hold, from your twisted idea of love, that is messing with my mind now. I am someone without you as well, and I don’t want to be convinced that I am not.
so as the last effort to rescue me they came in, dressed in the ultimate cool lifestyle.
they handed me all the tools that i might need to break away from the ‘sad’ in me. they filled me up with clocks that told the wrong time, told me that i would get used to the thrill of it.
told me to scrape down whatever stands in my way to happiness. told me my happiness should now be keeping an eye on the better guy, the better job, better photos on social media to highlight the same, weekends in lightless room with strangers.
when i became nauseous from too much change, when i ran into the fire to save the idea i had of myself, they held me back, told me i would develop a taste for such things i just needed some help, some influence, some liquid courage, some castles of smoke, guts to throw away everything that doesn’t serve a purpose. they told me to talk like the ones who hurt me and to call it empowerment.
i did all that i must do and now no one asks me what’s next. thankfully, no one burdens me with with their dreams anymore. i am no longer a possible candidate for the worst, for taking over the misfortune of my mother’s life. i no longer have to worry about hurting my parents by being like them or living like them. thankfully, what bothers me, what eats me up is nothing that would keep anyone else awake and that is important.
in spite of this emptiness i write about and this loneliness that seems bigger than this world, all this do not stop me from laughing at jokes, craving for food that i shouldn’t eat, dreaming of another broken love with my only lover, from having a good time – that i will conveniently forget. nothing i cry about, no ailing that lives in me is too large to stop me from living.
i guess i carry an instability in my genes. if my eyes are in the color of sadness, i guess i got it from my parents. and they are lovely people who somehow raised me right in spite of having a tendency to mess up things and their sadness with life.
tomorrow i will probably hate them frequently again but they will nag at me when i reach home drenched in rain, will tell me sit straight and force me to eat what will keep me alive, will ask me to keep my phone down, and sleep a little bit more.
they will not ask what’s wrong and that will disappoint me, but they will let me do what i want to do (sometimes) and they will try their best not to wrong me. they will wish for my happiness, even if they have no idea what makes me happy and that is important.
because though i lived my extended teenage believing that i had no one, but it was not true. i saw no one and it is my fault. even when i thought i was not loved they have loved me silently. though it was a tiring love, it knew no end.
I am writing this poem because for an hour my mind is butchering every beautiful thing in the world to get that one line that can finish the thirst of this page. And nothing beautiful remains beautiful when such desperate hands hack at it, cut it into grotesque chunks and then fail terribly when trying to stuff them into these mascots figures, these alphabets. I call this a poem because I can call it nothing else. I call this a poem because years ago a naive me reached the conclusion that the only way a moment can live on, a feeling can be recorded, without the burden of the reason of its existence is if it becomes a poem and because the current me doesn’t know how to deal with myself, the current me knows nothing but to write, and has nothing of substance that moves it’s heart. And I fear myself for the ease with which I refer to myself as ‘it’, only because I became useless for few minutes. I end up documenting my fear of becoming empty, of becoming blind, and calling it a poem. I end up felling helpless in newer ways and I am forced to call it a new beginning because giving every sorrow a beautiful name is all that I capable of.
From my grip I lose
yet another word-
now alien to my lips and life.
From the corner of my eyes,
I watch it die the same death as me.
Now the stories I told myself have become
a little more unreasonable,
when the words and ideas that
I took as absolute
turned out to be just shape-shifting feelings,
the echoes of my lives I could have had.
Is it possible for a voice to be a mirage?
Can it sound more real
than the world trying to get rid of it
Could it be that my hands,
my eyes were always empty?
Or were they just filled with wanting,
a wanting only for things that cannot be obtained,
that cannot be denied,
for they do not exist?
There was a melancholy in
looking up at the endless vacant sky
and looking for the invisible presence
of someone to depend on.
To wear these ideas
that were guaranteed
to sort my life and mind.
Except it felt like clothes borrowed.
I had to either return them
or throw them away.
My frail body and mind
were nothing more than what it was intended for.
And I was no better than any other
body barely keeping itself alive.
And though I was fed again and again
the idea of being something more,
being someone more.
In moments like these
I am reduced by my sorrows
to the helpless creature
we all know we are.