My tiny life holding its tiny fist stood at the gates of a thatched school. The broken lies and lesson flew out of windows with their sharp painful wings. And though my heart despised such birds, hated the thought of growing in the presence of their mocking chirps, I still walked. I walked because the winds were strong, and my eyes were pricked with the image of the ones with warm leaving in hurry, because i too wanted to be at a place where “i need to be” even if it was filled with cruel noise, even if my skin was shrinking in fear, and maybe precisely because I was going to lose myself some part of me wanted to know who would care. I walked towards walls, windows, and wells closed (for now). I looked in and saw faces and their lips that sculpted words without breaking. I looked at the empty place waiting for me. I could already see – my bending spine and twisted tongue. I could feel my heart already learning not to care anymore.
the dirt on my clothes- the white muslin and the brown chewed words, the earth dripping. its spots, that i dare not touch, they seep in, seep into the revolting blanks in me. the tireless cutters of trees, the sleepless lumberjacks in me, look up at my skin and its new ink they stop and breathe in some understanding. they choke on it, they sleep on it they carve it on everything they have destroyed. they have new gods again. gods that they will never pray to nor please. the gods they can’t ever leave.
I heard you got sick of your life. I heard I am not the only thing you are leaving behind. I am getting to know you more when you are not here. I am getting to know in ways, I didn’t want to and shouldn’t have to. But I am still hearing things, so I am still changing my mind.
Sometimes I want to tell them that they are wrong. Sometimes I almost stand up for you, but I don’t. What I know, whom I knew, the you I knew seems to be one more rumour on restless mouths.
Anything I can say about you now seems as ridiculous and as probable as what is being said about you by those whom I don’t want to believe.
But what do I want to believe? The ones with melting mind like me, are probably not the ideal people to hold any beliefs about you or about anything, actually.
Someone like me should have had nothing to with you. I shouldn’t have to learn my ways about living a world without you. Or worse a world where you are everywhere. Just not the way I remember. Just not the way I want.
I guess now I am the cruel one- the one people fear to love. This scenario was meant to be sad, but it isn’t somehow. (Why do the worst cases taste so bland to me when finally they arrive?) I guess it makes me relieved, if not happy, to feel loneliness more often than feeling distance. No one knocks at my door, and I can’t help but smile knowing it also means no would leave me. No one would leave me in love, leave me in pieces, leave me hating myself again. (Why do my hopes sound like running away even if I am facing life in every way I can, the only way I am allowed to, the only way forward that doesn’t require sacrificing myself again?)
Don’t call your love a help. Don’t tell me you pity me.
If even Love came to me like this, how shall I accept your feelings.
What would be left of me if I could reach you only because my sadness made me worthy of light.
I can choose such love of yours only if choose to never part with this pain that I have.
Though I wanted you beside me you are beside me because I can’t walk, because I am running into walls when you leave my hand. And I keep getting new bruises, fearing how your heart might change if I learn to smile.
Once she had a bite of my fate she became a restless ghost. She looked like all my ugly wishes staring back at me but she had a beautiful smile so it was more bearable to my eyes than to wear my own desperate words on my unsightly lips. She looked out of place, but in a good way as if she was the invitation to some place where my light won’t die. Even in her voice it was my own words that asked me to leave, that told me to love for the last time. As my shrieks danced in the empty corridors she planted a seed of eucalyptus in my palm, she covered my hand with hers, and covered our hands in dirt. She told me how, for years, only the smell of eucalyptus could calm her mind, it made her believe that there was a gentle cure to every disease that hurt her heart. As she spoke such words that were not extraordinarily sad I felt my spine become soft. I dreamt of her leaning against my back relieved of her every pain and maybe it was the only beautiful wish that has ever been born from my heart. Once I touched the shadow of her heart I grew and bloomed and learnt to be the one who waits, heals, loves, and breaks without bounds.
I wanted to play this winter song on the brightest day of spring. Maybe at least in that way I will be able to mourn for something that I should have been happy to leave behind. But the snowflakes in me drift into the world and become butterflies of someone else’s heart. All my songs now belong to sun, they belong to scent of summer fruits, they fall as unpredicted rain on the windows I closed just in time. Anyway, I had to learn this sooner or later. How can I keep believing in my own feelings, on the things that were supposed to never change, never melt after losing half of my winters to the green winds of change. As I place all my “old dreams that don’t suit the new me” away from my reach, I wonder if the only way to save the dignity of my old sincerity is to lock it way from my own skeptical, mocking eyes?
as he writes his love on my lips, i write his name on his cheeks again and again. trying to not get it wrong. trying to believe that he is not the one who leaves, not the one who left. trying to believe that the pain in my heart and the love on my mind are there for his taking, if he wants, that his feelings can be an anchor to mine.
the one thing i can’t be is honest. though there are many other adjectives that stare at me from their balconies at midnight as i walk and crawl through the dirt road, through the pool of lights, crying and shouting and breaking dreams in every home that i pass by. i hear them shaking their heads with disapproval and hopelessness. i look at their hazy shadows and try to hate them in equal measures but i don’t because they are so easy to forget. but this honesty, this honesty that people expect vexes me. this expectation makes me want to hide, run, run over their hearts all because it is so simple. all because the ones who ask me of this through their tears are not mere observers but are the ones struggling to stay close to me fighting the unnecessary sandstorm i create everyday. they are the ones who deserve honesty. they are the ones i don’t deserve. but my dishonesty is not only for this world. it is the only thing i can offer to myself as well. so again, i wake up in their arms with another lie ready on my lips. i hug them with with my true love and my false heart. i don’t try to make it right when they are in shambles again because there is no fancy way to put it, there is no beauty in what i do, there is no promise i would keep. there are only people who i leave. even when i can’t bear to miss one more person again.
I wanted to tell him thatI went back to the fountain the one made of moon marble in the neighborhood made of coal, andI fished for his wishes, the forgotten cold coins,
that once I believedI could find him in the things he left behind and I was wrong. I could only see the lingering complains and the eventual hate in the fact that he left.
But the romantic in me just couldn’t stop till I did the impossible, The romantic in me has no eyes, no ears only a tongue to ask for more. The work of running, begging, searching for a lost coin was left to me.
So I picked a random coin and lied thatit was his, just likeI picked him in this world of millions and I told myself he is mine.
I wanted to to tell him that even I was tired of my“shows of love” which played one lie after another till someone broke. But I guess he knows already.