You told me of love and what it does to your heart and how your heart wants to see me and love me alone. But it is too hard. A harder task than you imagined it to be.
You loved me for my silence, for my grace of letting you go, and for the tears in my eyes always, only for you.
You stand outside my heart, filling my insides with your shadows, with your hopes. Becoming my only light. Asking me to step out of myself, asking me if I am up for another search of your heart- that you have left behind in someone else’s heart tonight.
You kiss my hand and tell me you like this better- me being your hope, your home rather than being your wretched love- the love that that leads you to your worst face.
I close my eyes and again I try to forget what I wanted you to be, what I hoped you would be for me. I try to forget the wretched love you have become.
“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.
In a dull handheld mirror that had yet to be broken, I looked at myself and realized that someone is dying inside me.
I didn’t know how to accept this, so I solved every question in my math textbook. I learned to eat more and sleep late. Stared at my wrist for hours. Pretended to sleep fearing questions. Tried a bit of every sin and waited around to be damned.
I felt a constant urge to break someone so this world could be little less happier. But death claimed my heart before I could do that. So now I write “love” on your tongue without knowing what it means.
I can help you count everything you have. These objects have no meaning to me but I know something about life even if I don’t know everything. I know that your hands will stop shaking only if they keep counting, only when you have confirmed that you have not become poorer that you were a minute ago. I know that you don’t enjoy being like this, even though people say you are weird on purpose. I know that you have stars on your ceiling, only because the ones in the sky have abandoned you too many times.
So I will not tell you how to live your life. I will not force the disease of my heart into yours, in the name of cure. Build walls all you want, but keep me inside them with you.
My mind that understands is chained and crippled by its understanding. It only tries to understand new words by comparing it to what has already written or read. It only understands feelings in terms of the pain it has given or all it has suffered.
So when I stand in front of the doors of a poem feeling the sting of December winds on my back. When I ring the doorbell and hear from other side “May I come inside?” I immediately know that this not something that I understand, that there is a difference in reading as if sitting on the couch in a stranger’s house waiting to be entertained and reading as if I have let the stranger in my own mind and allowed him to change the view I have of this world.
Some poems are not just poems.
They are voices that never die
because they have never been born.
They are ghosts that we have always wanted to haunt.
They are names we give to our own suffering,
a closure that only we can give to ourselves.
I tell myself that I have nothing worth saying and that no one wants to listen. I know this because I have tried to speak my mind and in best cases I have been told that my mind is not that right, that the experience that I speak from doesn’t exist for them, so they will unanimously refuse to acknowledge my narrative. Or they will smile at me and look down at me. But I am not their adorable kid who had got her alphabets mixed up. I am a person equal to them, and my level of ignorance is equal to them even if it is not about same things.
I am a person equal to them. I am a person equal to them I am a person equal to them… I have to keep repeating it or else I might just forget. Maybe I have already started to forget because these days I speak in small sentences, waiting for affirmative nods. I find myself reading everything that they will approve of. I find myself voicing what they want to hear. I see myself calling myself stupid before they call me one. I see myself nod understandingly at everything I disagree with. I hear the arguments inside me against the favorite opinions of everyone and they stay inside me, and everyone is happy.
“You are too young to know better, to know reality. You are too girlish to see the world for what it is. You are too sentimental to speak logically.” I know the wall of judgement I will run into if I let myself speak.
So you may actually want to listen and you might not be like others. But I can’t bring myself to speak about what matters to me. Cause either I will be wounded at my weakest spot or I will end up hating you just for being like everyone else when you ridicule me, interrupt me to correct me and try to tell me what I should be feeling instead. I won’t give you a chance because I can’t take chances with our friendship. I won’t speak up because I don’t want to feel more inferior than I already do.
I tell myself again and again
what it is that I really want
as I force myself to sit there and listen to every word
that diminishes the efforts I have put in my dream.
It makes me feel strong and pathetic at the same time,
that my wanting too little
could also be something that I must be criticized for,
something I must apologize for.
They force in their way into my mind
and take away every picture, every memory that exists
not for my happiness, not as a proof of my life
but a reminder, a reason for me to forgive and let go
of all the hurtful words that my dear ones
speak at me casually in the name of care.
I beg and cry inside,
outside I look unbothered.
I resort to everything,
anything to postpone this dismantling and rating of my life
even by a day.
I tell myself again and again
I can bear this
but I don’t think I can.
Every morning I convince myself
that all I do will make sense to them someday.
But will it really?
I do not have one person who believes in me,
in what I am capable of.
How long, how far can I walk
only by the strength of a delusional value and importance
that only I can attribute to myself.
The cup of emptiness that we want to taste
but we never make.
That blue winter inside our bones.
It is not empty nor cold.
It if full of all our fears.
It has face of all we have lost
and all that can be lost.
And it grows everyday
by huge proportions.
It grows as much
as we grow small.
Not all that I write make sense.
But that is how these words
exist inside me.
That is how my heart has raised them
to play in the shade of gloom,
to lose themselves in the flood of feelings
and to become synonyms of people
who no longer remember me.