I find myself trapped between forgiveness and frustration.
How often have I said that I want to be your strength. How easy it was to say it when I didn’t really know you or me.
But now when your breaking and my sadness is of your making I am fumbling for better words-
words that can show my heart that aches for you and because of you,
words that don’t forget or diminish your own hurt while talking about the parts of me that are finally dying after loving you for so long,
words that show my hatred for my brittle self, for my heart that is not big enough for real pain or real forgiveness.
Now I don’t know to talk about saving you, about loving you in spite of the demon you warned me about, the part of you that is stronger than me and you, together or apart.
As I kiss you I hear the other part of you digging playgrounds in rain, erasing you furiously from your skin, coloring each bruise with paint of happiness, clawing me, scaring me, making me scared for you.
As I kiss you I want to stand with you in your nightmare I want you to have someone beside you for once. As I kiss you I want to run far away from your world and forget this love.
As I climb, my steps remembered the shoes I once had the ones that didn’t hurt so much and how hands of mine that hacked through them just to become my own person, some sort of grown-up. I climbed over the yellow soft dress and the light that it caught just to get this, this body that looks held together but is not (this body knows only how to fall apart), just to get few more shadows that ruin my beautiful wrist with their persistent passion. They claw through me, to see how I am made, how I look and speak once I break. A stranger once left me at the bottom of a black pond and called it love just so that I won’t cry and in return I called him my love just for few breaths, just for my life. I climbed over the right to mean the word “love” thereafter and the dream of knowing a heart other than mine. I breathe as if I have sinned yet I walk like I am happiness and determination in flesh. I cling to all the bitter bits of this world as if they would ultimately save me. I climb over, get over, and forget so easily, so bitterly that each feeling of mine is just a shade of resentment.
years from now i hope my living room has a space for a lovely piano. i hope my fingers would play something beautiful on it. that here i would smile and not know of the passing time. that i would learn to love my walls as much as the world that stands on the other side. as my child misses me, cries for me, tries to keep me alive when i am not, i hope she feels this music she can’t hear, i hope she sees the future i couldn’t finish living, i hope she knows that my warmth is more than my skin and my blood running under it.
I board the train that I could thinking, only thinking about the one I couldn’t. There are only tunnels, only darkness, no network, only cold metal that I rest my head hoping for my fever to come down, only windows that turn into mirror.
In those momentary mirrors I always look like someone on life support. In the crowd that no longer suffocates me I cling to the wires that fill my ears with the sound of past, with love that will never come back, with the love that I will never be, with everything I can’t bear to talk about nor forget.
Though it pains me to look at myself for more than 2 seconds, I force myself to withstand my stare. For if I take my eyes away from me I end up looking into eyes of strangers who twist and distort their faces asking for a reason they can understand or they end up looking away, their heart as fragile as mine.
We all act as if we can know each other by a glance, as if we would prefer to be the backdrop, the wallpaper than to find eyes that can actually see us, than to know one more human who is hell bent on proving the brittleness of our species. I understand their heart, their fear all too well. My skin remembers what their heart has forgotten. Though I don’t think anyone really forgets things like these.
today is the birthday of one another oddity of mine. on a day like this, few calendars ago i learnt how to turn my helplessness into my charm. i learnt to fill the glasses, the throats of everyone i know with something sweet, with a taste they can’t name. i learnt to become something that can’t be known or hurt. in my bedroom i sit at the foot of my bed trying to block out the presence, the weight of the other half of my body clinging, clawing, crying, dissociating. i again forget where i am. i again forget how to stop shaking. if i walk a bit more into the darkness i feel i won’t have to pretend to be the one who has a say in what happens to her. a hand slips into mine. sometimes it rests on my waist, and i force myself not to feel nauseated. love him. love her. i tell myself repeatedly. love. love. love. love till i can make up for all my lacks. my love is my penance, my apology to anyone who chooses me as their destiny.
I wish falling for you was easier but it isn’t, it could never be that is not how you like it- easy love goes only as far as that and maybe that is why I loved you. Or maybe that’s what I tell myself. Everything I tell myself is a whisper, a secret from you. I tell myself stories of a ‘you’ that probably never existed. I hope you never get to hear them, for now even my sacrifices feel like betrayals. I am afraid, till the end my heart would only be able to love the fiction of you. I am afraid, till the end you would remain unloved. Even when you don’t deserve to be. That hurts me more than knowing that even I cannot be truly loved by you.
it was once possible to be a parrot who was a doctor who sang in a choir of angels who saved the world from villains with ridiculously evil funny names.
it was easy to speak of wants- a pair of shoes with lights and a glow in dark radium cello tape and an army uniform and cream rolls and a tiara with anything that shines and the cards i don’t know how to play and…
once i used to be simple. i left my sleep to live like the guy who runs for hundred years to rescue the princess. waiting to reach a blurry 8-bit princess that never shows up at any castle of my world was not a source of disappointment (or depression) then.
I don’t drink coffee. I quit long ago, don’t remember why. I quit long ago, you haven’t just noticed yet. Nevertheless there are two cups on this table. that is all it takes to make me feel that we are strangers. But you are the only stranger who loves me. You only love me because you don’t know me. That is all it takes to make me feel indebted and guilty. I guess one cup won’t hurt much.
I read about the life you left behind. About the days when love couldn’t protect anyone. Days when there rose a necessary evil in you. It seems once you were good enough to fall for the traps that I live in. I wish I had known the fragile you, but maybe it is all for the best, for my cruelty walks hand in hand with my love.
In your room, as you smile and joke about the tears you have hidden in your diaries, about the new hearts that you had to grow every year. As I peel off my makeup and my sarcastic words, I realize that I am about to fall for you (probably for all the wrong reasons).
Though I might not have been looking for someone sad to love, but ‘not having to explain’ helps. It helps that you, like me, know and understand that showing wounds sometimes hurt more than getting them.
From my empty room, from the edge of my personal cliff, I looked into the windows of strangers, looked over their shoulder at texts they write, looked at the pages where their bookmark rests, silently waited at the edge of my chair trying to overhear responses to the big questions.
And all I have known by prying so hard is that there is nothing there. Nothing in the text that could pass for shorthand. The same book rests on the same table for years, serving only the role of a carefully thought out accessory. No question is big enough to be carefully considered. No relationship is important enough to be held to heart. That I was foolish to believe otherwise till now. That I am putting myself on another path to heartbreak if I do not believe in the night that I see. I must unlearn the way I have lived to find a place to belong.
In between the cold beginning and cruel ends that are the parentheses of our lives, there is nothing for me to hang on to. But it helps to know that there are plenty of empty rooms in this painful smaller eternity, that I need not kill myself over an emptiness so common. And it is really difficult to feel alone once I know that.