so my blue dream is not even mine now. i am just a mesh of people who hate me. their fingers are my fingers now poking my skin, endless railroads of red are built with their nails that they do not even cut before they sell me their fake love-filled eyes. their eyes are my eyes that wants to smash every reflective surface where i fall. every reflective thought is just a poison. a poison, a gossip, an untrue version of me running wild in the minds of those who look at me. they gossip about me so i gossip about myself , whisper my secrets into the air or better, into the ears of lovers who are chosen especially for their talents in indifference, vulnerability, and emotional violence. lovers who can break me – are all that i want. i need someone else to do this breaking for me because i am coward who can’t move towards the end i want, and also because my hands are busy. i have more things to do. i need my hands to tear my talents apart in the name of value, tear my feelings apart in the name of my worthlessness. i need my hands to paint again and again. paint indifferences on my insecurities that come a bit too often to the surface of my skin now, paint laugh lines on the bleeding corners of my lips, paint dreams of love, moments of hurt, grand betrayals on my otherwise lonely mind, paint humans that match the shadows in me, painting causes and assurances. i must paint. i must paint a reason- a reason why i suffer so, why this world works like how it does, why i must break as the world breaks, why i must break even for fixing this world. i must paint a face so that others don’t break at the sight of my face. i clip my nails everyday so that when i become someone’s ghost when someone suffers because of me at least my hands won’t leave them scars.
The “sweet escape” is now more expensive and better hidden in a packaging devoid of bubble wrap and crumpled newspaper (how does that even work?) I can no longer remember why it caught my eyes. But such things normally do, so I don’t question it much. “Such things” almost always refers to things that I will always see and be drawn to, but never get near. And I am not talking about the bare minimum semblance of love, or the friend who must eat food without me to feel accepted in this world. Now that is out of the way, we can all imagine with utmost accuracy and pity everything that is definitely on this list of mine. Things I know the price of because my pockets are empty. The kind of empty a drop of dew feels in front of a desert(even the smallest one). This is not even a smallness fueled by insecurity or class consciousness. This is the lens of pure objectivity at work, which I sort of stupidly relied on to cure me, stop me from showering my attention to something that challenges my place in world in the wake of release of a random new replaceable product in market. which is sort of weird because I do not know the price of the meal I eat or the clothes I wear – I feel them. So I know better. I really do. But the billboards that fly over the cities -abducting cows, and UFOs, and fixed deposits, and basic sanity- make me want to dial the number to someone, anyone who can get me a card that, I am told, can get me every luxury I do not yet deserve. To my credit, I never dialed that number simply because wanting something that was designed to be wanted seemed stupid, poking a hole into the balloon of my existence for it seemed stupid. In the list of more stupid things I can now “not want” are grand expectations of a basic acceptable life, minimum respect, of love, of family, of wanting a fair chance at a dream, of food that tastes like food, and air that doesn’t clog my lungs. I am told that at a price one can have them all but to the one who is barely afloat it sure is a stupid thing to want.
And this is the sorry sorry state in which I find myself after everything is done. The checklist can now be torn and thrown away in this trash can that sits like a queen in this empty street. And I sit like an attendant beside it filled with vomit and dread and thoughts of “now what? now what? now what?” circling my head like vultures who prey on words born out of insecurities. Insecurities that should have died long ago if not for the people who love you and who need you to have these flaws to feel comfortable around you.
They are so convinced that they will drown that the only thing they promise you is a death together and it is actually very romantic… to see them take a knife and peel of a layer of their skin and hand it back to you so that you can do the same to them, so you can smile at each other, convincing each other, that this is what everyone does, this is what goes on in everyone’s life, that this is somehow normal, that this is love. Because it was still better than every other hollow feeling that you get from this world that would only leave you wanting for god-knows-what.
This is the road of betterment though. So things have changed a lot. I don’t handle knives anymore. I don’t leave my body unattended in hands of strangers. I don’t curse at people who tell me that I need help (though I still feel that I should give them an earful). I have forced my way out of that life. I have quit my demons. I have quit lOvE. I have quit things that hurt me with the promise of life. It is almost the end.
It was supposed to be fine now. But now, no matter how much I ring the door of better life, no one answers. It is night and I hear voices calling me back. There are people out there that I have promised to die with and they will be here for me anytime. And if I see them, I will probably walk into their arms and all this will be for nothing. I know I shouldn’t be crying over this. If anything the world of sanity seems to be as unreliable and as irresponsible as my friends who fill their head with smoke and drive into the nearest wall.
her touch – always a procession of feelings that won’t leave her heart, of everything she doesn’t have or even want words for.
i hold back her hand and it all quiets down- the waves, the death, the crashing planes, and the flying roofs. the cities in her mind grow silent. they- the tiny inhabitants, the ugly parasites in her heart, they look at me as if i am an enemy, and yet smile at me, as if i am one of them.
they wait for her to smile at this, which she does. she tells me she is fine. in the same tone in which i use to tell her the same lie. she leans in and touches my cheeks. now it is my turn to go silent. now my cities and their helpless monsters wait to see where she leads this madness to.
We once loved this world more than ourselves. Now we just like everything only as much as our own temperaments and thoughts permit.
The oranges reminds him of view from his broken home, the sour taste of everything that should have been beautiful.
The glowing beads fill my mind with the images of meaningless gifts, the faces of men and friends that always fall short even in the face if my plummeting expectations.
Going out of our way to hide is the measure of our love somehow. We sit across each other for every meal and talk about things that make sense, everything and anything that can’t cause more harm than the things close to our heart have already done.
I feel the rustle of a world buried deep in me, he must feel the same. But the world that is lost and the hope that is no longer mine can only do so little. There is a happiness that doesn’t look enchanting. There is a kindness that isn’t grand. There are things only we can be for each others even if there are thousand things we can’t.
I would have told him “I love you” if I didn’t know how hearing these words have only made him cry. He lets me love within the boundary of my temperament and thoughts, he stands by these walls and knows why they are for.
There are no dances waiting for us, no innocent moments of sunlight, no darkness or headlights striking our windows, nothing worth the wait. We are stranded here in this life. We are stranded on a planet far away from our home- a home that becomes more and more beautiful, the more we are convinced there is no way back.
Here the days are longer than our lifespan combined. Here we record 50 goodbyes to ourselves a day. The air, the hurricanes, the rain, the smile, this peace of mind are all just luminescent chemicals that delivers more than its promise of a near death exhilaration.
The rainbow of lies is our constant sky the friend we cannot live without. It is the only thing that helps us live with the dust of betrayal that settles on the clothes left out to dry- another thing we much dust away and forget, another thing we must do to be called a “good sport”.
I sit here knitting another version of my beautiful glorious past, another tribute to the world filled with rare ordinary and you sit across me complaining about what the world has come to as you paint my brain to match the new you- one less insecurity in this perfect world.
i crawl into another embrace, scratch the surface of my fake love to find something true. hopes. hopes. is this what they call hope? it must be.
the coffee turns cold as my story ends. again i am wearing a skin i have stolen. the one breathing beside me has a knack for sad stories recited by happy girls, of being a knight to one he doesn’t have to save.
me, i love drowning the world in sadness (the only way i can take anyone’s breath away) i love leaving loose ends, leaving people behind- i call it the fear of being left behind. i have a list of similar innocent motivation for every mess i make, for the mess i have become.
when he leaves i throw away the coffee he never drinks. i get over my urge to be seen for what i am. i dip my fingers into another color that he might like, or at least remember.
The silence wrapping our words
was not born out of a deed or two.
Or out of lack of love.
We didn’t wake up one day
and began feeling alone.
The day we held hands,
we felt the alienation
that only love can bring.
No great love can
change what we were.
Where the plains of our own
lives and its insecurities met
there we see a crack,
to remind us everyday
that we never fit with each other.