Some kinds of love are made of flesh, that can be killed eventually however long it must take. Forever does not exist for everyone. But all that exists only in the kingdom of decay, all that refuses to leave this flesh as the knife of time cuts deeper and deeper, those stubborn ones who only tend to the roots of hopeless dreams it was probably them, who thought up this scheme of wanting a thing like this. This fragile cloud of “forever” that will rain any day and yet will rise from our tears and fill our skies again. I am sad to say I am too weak to stray away from those skies. I am yet to learn how to sever the wants of my gods from my flesh.
I washed my face and with the water dripping from my messy bangs onto the dress that I never planned to ruin I stared at the ant on the wall. I listened to the sound of you falling in love again just across the wall.
I held in the meaning of this along with my breath. I blew at the ant wondering if I can be a force to be reckoned with a hurricane for someone else. Maybe not. I felt a sense of camaraderie with the legs of prey today. So maybe not today.
Or maybe never. I feel you would laugh even if I tried to be one. I feel a storm. I always feel it at my back whenever I turn away from you. I wish I could fear for you, worry about you in those moments and not think about the knives that leave your hand always to find me. Though you say you never meant it to be that way.
I fear most – the words of love from your lips, because they are never for me, but always said within my earshot And though you say love is like that for everyone, but do you really fear the same things as me? Do you pray to the gods of bathroom ants for forgetfulness, for survival as if love is force that will always be against you?
in her two storey house my doll sleeps on her silk sheets with a knife resting beside her. it shines as if newly delivered and never used, as if sharpened hundred times, as if it has known the pain of blood every night, every night cleaned under the deafening noise of running tap water. the metal mixes with her fears, with her trembling hands. something again slips from her grasp. and now it is time for tears, and it will be soon time for cycles of search and paranoia. there is a time for every madness in her mind. there is always a calm wait before she reaches the next stage of hopelessness. there is always a party hosted at the dead end of her lives where she takes another drink, and finds hands filled with warmth and eyes that like the color of her healing skin, the burned tips of her tongue, and her swallowed words equally. but someone utters the wrong word, looks at her the wrong way, leaves the taps water, filled with smell of blood, running in her mind again, and again she lunges for the the knife that fits in her hand better than any hope and again she ends the song of her lover, again she wakes up alone.
My mother used the same knife for over twenty-five years. That’s roughly as old as I am. Through the slicing, chopping, and mincing, the knife grew paper-thin. As I chewed, swallowed, and slurped, my intestines and my liver, heart, and kidneys grew. Along with the food my mother made for me, I swallowed the knife marks that were left on the ingredients. Countless knife marks are engraved in the dark insides of my body. They travel along my veins and play on my nerves. That’s why a mother is a painful thing to me. It’s something the organs all know. I understand the word heartache physically.
the green pastures the white fences the perfect fake loving gaze the debts of kindness the half that never completes itself for once the ornamental lackings of my being the personal sun, the privilege to look away and never know the heart of one who can’t the greed such that I can’t stop receiving the ideals that I can live without, ideals that are already falling short to accommodate my monstrous growth, my falls from grace,
All these, everything that I say I don’t need is also all that I cannot give back.
It is easier for me to live, to be kind, to understand, to love with a life of hypocrisy, with a guilt weighing down my heart, with the smile that I can get only because the world is unfair.
It is easier for me to smile at the knife stuck in my back. It is easier to forgive when I cannot forget my own blood stained hands, my own reckless selfish heart.
I covered up myself up- hiding the pieces, hiding the glue, hiding the knife close to my heart. There is too little time and so much to be disposed, so much has to be kept at the bottom of the stairs, under the sheets, under the hand that cupped my face so that no one could say with certainty whether I am laughing or crying or thinking about the hands that will never touch my face again or wondering why I can’t move away or keep away from mines and alligators and magma and my fearful heart and dark wells and palaces that never sink or get ruined completely and green roads of past and red destinations in my hands and love for colors that will not love me back and following the one with tearful eyes and the thoughts of some end, any end. All this extravagance, so that no one could see my see through my real feelings being eaten up by imaginary words and scenarios.
“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.
How long should I bleed for the one who holds the knife.
I pluck another flower of kindness to appease the one who won’t even smile for me. He looks at it and tells me the tested foolproof ways to kill this useless plant that grows in me and cracks his shield.
He tells me he will love me more if I will cut his skin instead of making him look as bad as he is, if I struggle a bit to get back at him rather than struggle to know him like this.
He says “i would like us to be peas of the same pod, i would like us to be the insects with same appetite, i would like you so so much more, if you would help me rule this world that doesn’t listen to me. if you could speak the same words as i do, words dipped in careless anger rather than the ones served with pity. don’t tell me the danger of my dagger by slicing away your skin. you feel more like an enemy now. the more you bleed to make me suffer, to make me give up, the farther you get from the person i could love.”
How long should I bleed for the one who holds the knife to stop him from cutting his own heart. This will hurt him, he knows, eventually if not now. Yet he is becoming a creature of claw with a paper skin, he is growing a dream from the horrors he has only read. The unnatural pauses on his lips, the look of helplessness in his eyes makes me wonder if he even knows how to stop.
my other head bleeds and falls off as does my bloody knife
i can no longer call myself a victim of life now that my sin is set in stone
few more hours for the sun to rise few more hours i must bear the company of my face in few more hours the world will love me now that i look like them and kill like them they will surely love me for having one less brain and one less mouth
my eyes look back at me not accusingly but with pity of what have i done to myself but i dare not cry and act as if i am the one being wronged my tears- i’ll be burying them under the red petunias that you loved
my hearts beats furiously as if running towards something, perhaps an end end of me? end of her? it feels wrong saying “her”, “you” as if a knife is all it takes to set things conveniently wrong
i close the door and leave my open mouth and questioning eyes on the kitchen table i break a nail and break my heart as i dig two graves for myself
Today I realized what to call all that I have been reading for so long. A person I didn’t mean to overhear called it ‘a sense of urgency’- the desire to save this world as soon as possible.
It seems the enemies are too many. I saw many names in the list of these enemies that I silently agreed with- pollution, dictatorship, bullying, monetization of education, competing in a rigged world, oppression of lives and loves of minority, hate crimes,…
I scoffed at some: the collapse of society in the hands of socially withdrawn, collapse of economy in the hands of those who want and do less, the unfeeling and unapologetic generation that seems to love depression, women whose learning and thinking too much only breaks families,…
“this is the cause worth dying for”- I suddenly became afraid of that feeling.
As I read all the absurd causes I couldn’t agree with. As I read and became exasperated at the words of those who were convinced that they knew better even as they killed and killed and killed and got addicted to seeing blood dissolving in oceans. I realized how dangerous this feeling could be.
“this is what to means to change the world. to change the world is to walk over everything I don’t want to see” My sense of urgency hated me for thinking this. It recited every quote about silence of good men. But all I could now see was the line that I must not cross, the words I must not say, the knife that I must never hold- no matter the cause.